


the curious happenstance of pedro pascal and din djarin

by megasaurus



Series: Curious Happenstance [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Asexual Din Djarin, Dimension Travel, Dimensional FuckeryTM, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Insomnia, Mandalorian, Mandalorian Culture, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Sleep Deprivation, Tags May Change, Time Travel, Warnings May Change, and helping me get out of my writers block, i hope you like it because im sleep deprivd, kudos to my friend for the title, literally i was up until 4am, post episode 8, trying to write this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2021-04-11
Packaged: 2021-04-21 04:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 52
Words: 197,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megasaurus/pseuds/megasaurus
Summary: Pedro sighed. The Mandalorian looked up, but didn't respond. "So." He took a seat opposite. "What do you want me to do with you?"There was a beat of silence. The Mandalorian shifted in his chair."I need residence for the period of time that I'll be here. I need to know everything about this planet and what I need to do to survive. I need shelter, food, and currency, and the knowledge to sustain myself." Another pause. "And I need work."
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin & Pedro Pascal
Series: Curious Happenstance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746634
Comments: 713
Kudos: 557





	1. Oh, I’m being murdered.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hokusai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hokusai/gifts), [weirdy_w0nd3r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdy_w0nd3r/gifts).

> This concept is a wild one and will be treated as such! Enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Trigger warnings will be at the start of chapters that require them.

.~.-.~.

Being an actor came with its perks. You could go to places you never would have dreamed of going, you could dress up for a living, put on a helmet say a few lines and boom you're world famous.

Being an actor also came with its cons. Unwanted paparazzi, spontaneous interviews (he still felt agitated by the airport incident), and the icing on top, crazy fans.

They were... nice people. The fans were nice. Of course they were, just sometimes maybe the fans were too obsessive. And that's fine. He could deal with it.

At least... Pedro sighed at the scene in front of him. This took not only the cherry, but also the icing, and the entire cake.

It was supposed to be a normal day, at a normal convention, meeting normal people with maybe a few thumbs in his eyes.

The cosplayer had come up to him, and begged, downright _begged_ for help. Never mind that he'd skipped the line, after pushing through security. Pedro was getting ready to duck in case the guy decided to throw a punch. But instead he started begging for help. Started spewing nonsense about wormholes and different dimensions and- just a whole bunch of crazy cosplayer shit.

_It's fine._ Pedro told himself. _This is fine._ _They're a good person, just a little obsessive._ He held up a hand to stop the approaching security.

"Hey, man," he started, and though he thought he imagined it at first, the man visibly flinched, even under the helmet. "I will get back to you on that," the man went to protest but Pedro held up a hand. "But let me get through this line, okay?"

Really, he should have let security take him.

He didn't know what stopped him. One flick of his wrist and this cosplayer would be gone, and his day would have stayed normal.

But there was something about the genuine desperation coming from beneath that helmet that made Pedro think: oh, what the hell. Let's humour him.

It was a normal day up until the point that a man wearing an impeccable Mandalorian cosplay took off his helmet and bore Pedro's face.

He'd been pulled aside after the line was gotten through, the cosplayer pulled him behind a curtain, and Pedro's first and immediate thought was: oh, I'm being murdered. But then the helmet came off, and...

_Fuck me._


	2. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will TRY to get these chapters out on a regular basis. But I have a history of not being able to do that. Still... I will try my hardest.

The first emotion was pure, unbridled panic.

He'd been in his ship, dammit, with the kid (_his _kid), they'd just left Nevaro, they'd just won, they'd escaped...

And then there was a bright light, and then darkness, and then... and then people, lots and lots of people, he was surrounded.

His first and immediate instinct was to reach for his blaster, but none of these people were paying him any mind. So he relaxed.

But then he came to his senses, and he realised: the kid was gone. Poof. Disappeared. Like in a cloud of smoke in a magic act, except this time there was a blinding flash of light.

With a hand on his holster, ready to draw his blaster at any given moment, he searched. His first priority was finding the kid. Then he could worry about figuring out how he got here in the first place.

But as it turned out, finding this kid in such a large room filled to the brim with people was like trying to find a fucking needle in a haystack. God, he could have been trampled, or taken, or, just-

In his panic, he failed to notice the banners. Instead he found himself on the floor, and another person stood over him apologising profusely.

"I wasn't looking where I was going!" the girl cried, "I'm sorry!"

_Oh, sure, I can stand on my own two feet when I've been fatally shot, but bumping into someone is my downfall._

"It's fine," he grumbled, waving away the girl's hand.

"That's a really great cosplay," she said when Din was on his own feet again. He didn't know what a 'cosplay' was, nor how he came to obtain one, but he didn't care enough to ask.

"I'm looking for something. Little, green, big ears?"

The girl, for some ungodly reason, laughed. "You'll find lots of those here!" Then, without another word, she walked away.

_Lots of those? _His stomach dropped. _Like the kid's species? _He shook his head, no, not so soon. _Not so soon. I won't give him up to them. Not yet._

He stood amongst the crowd, staring at the blank spot where the girl once was.

It was only then that he noticed the banners.

There, written in bold golden lettering, '_The Mandalorian'._

His vision tilted.

They'd found him.

Now he was frantic. Now he was scared. So so scared. Fuck, he should have checked that Gideon was dead, the fucking bastard, and now his carelessness had gotten him found and kidnapped and dumped on some random ass alien planet. They probably had his ship, they probably _killed _the child, just to save them the fucking effort later down the road-

He didn't register he'd fallen to the floor until he heard a distant voice asking if he was alright. He didn't respond, he didn't get up off the floor.

He wondered if it would have been better, and safer, if he had died and Cara had run with the kid. Would things have turned out otherwise if he never let IG11 take off his helmet? If he'd been abandoned in the imperial bar, slipping in and out of consciousness until he fell asleep for the last time?

He should never have put his guard down.

"...we should call an ambulance, he's not getting up..."

"...do you reckon he's unconscious?"

"...heart attack?"

He'd garnered a crowd, now. A large gathering of people stared down at him. If only they knew his failings.

...

Just as someone leaned down, however, to take off his helmet, he snatched their wrist. They yelped in surprise. "He's awake! He's okay!"

He'd be fucking damned if he went down without a fight. He couldn't save the kid. But he could be damn well sure he'd avenge him.


	3. Cross-Dimensional-Mind-Fuckery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to wait before posting these, but I wanted to get them out of the way and really set this whole thing up. Enjoy

After the crowd had disappeared, Din got to work.

The first order of business. Find who made the banners. The thing mocked him, sent a chill down his spine, made his blood boil. But there was no use letting emotions get the best of him now.

He marched straight up to it. He stared it down. It was made out of some sort of silky fabric, and even in the windless room, the hustle-bustle of passersbys made it flutter lightly.

"Are you looking for the panel?"

He whipped his head around to the source of the voice. There he saw a young man with big round glasses. Eyes full of life and joy. The way he looked at him reminded him of how the child would stare in adoration. A pang shot through his heart.

He didn't know what the panel was, but if it gave him some much-needed information, then he'd take anything he could get. "Yes," he said simply.

"It starts in about five minutes. If you run you can make it, I'm going there too, so, run with me?"

It must be some sort of event.

He didn't respond, only gestured for the man to lead the way. Instantly, he broke out into a light run, and Din followed thereafter. He barely needed to jog to keep up with his pace.

Eventually, they arrived, or at least that's what Din assumed, because the man stopped. "Just in time," he said, with a grin. "There's the interviewer coming on stage..."

Sure enough, a woman walked out onto the stage with a sort of long cylinder that had a sphere attached on the end. She began to speak into it, Din could only assume it was a microphone, then.

"Who's excited?" she called out to the audience. Everyone cheered. "I'm excited!" More cheers. This was leaving Din utterly confused.

He thought this 'panel' was going to give him information, but this woman was an interview-ee.

Furthermore, if there are banners hung up everywhere advertising _him, _why has no one grabbed him yet? Why was he not being restrained and- and shot?

The woman talked about some random shit Din didn't understand. He began to focus his full attention when she started calling out more people onto the stage.

"Jon Favreau!" Lots of cheers.

"Dave Filoni!" Even more cheers.

"And our wonderful actors and actresses, Gina Corano, Carl Weathers, Werner Herzog, and the man of the hour-"

Din didn't hear the name.

He didn't need to.

It was hard enough watching Cara walk out onto that stage. But then Carga walked on too, and the fucking client of all people, and then...

It was like everything turned slow-motion. There was an incessant ringing in his ears, the tinnitus as a result of all the explosions he'd been exposed to. Thunderous applause as this man - this _imposter - _walked out onto the platform.

The interviewer asked them all questions, and they all answered. But Din only paid attention to one.

"Pedro Pascal," she flashed a grin, "For all those in the audience who don't know what this show is about, why don't you give a quick briefing?"

The imposter opened his mouth, took a breath. Seemed to contemplate for a few seconds, then he spoke.

"It's sort of like-like- well it's like a western show, right?" he spoke with his hands as much as his mouth. Flamboyant. This was not a very good imposter. "The Mandalorian, he's..." Din's heart skipped a beat. "He's this bounty hunter who is hired to do a job, he's supposed to find this asset and deliver it back to the client. It's sort of like, the Mandalorian's epic adventures, but," the imposter laughed, "but for a more mature audience."

Cara nodded. At this point, Din didn't know if it was actually Cara or not. This woman was wearing a dress. Cara would never wear a dress.

Either these bastards were trying to impersonate him, and his _friends, _and the client for some reason, or he'd entered into another goddamn dimension, which frankly, was utterly ridiculous-...

...

There had been a flash of bright orange light.

No alarms were tripped. He wasn't knocked unconscious.

_Fuck. _He cursed under his breath. _Fuck. Is that even possible?_

No. No, it wasn't. Dimensional travel was proven to be a farce. It was impossible. And yet... he stood before these people, talking to each other and cracking jokes like they were all best friends, even the client...

Oh, god. Maybe he had crossed dimensions. It only made sense, these people-

_Fuck._


	4. The What-The-Fuck-ening

There was fear. Pure fear invading Pedro's senses. This man had his goddamn face.

There was a line between obsessive and needing mental help - this person had crossed it. He reached for the curtain, ready to call for security, but the bastard snatched his forearm and gripped it so tight he thought it might break.

"I need your help." _Fuck, he even has my voice._

Pedro did not respond. He didn't want to. He just wanted to go home, and sleep. All day. All week, even.

"I know you won't believe me. But you have to hear me out."

It's not like he had a choice.

"I don't know what's going on," the man continued. "I don't know how I got here. I don't know who you are or who those other people are. All I know is that you have my face."

Something in Pedro's chest constricted. He tried to get away, but the man had him in a very tight grip.

"I was in my ship and there was a bright light. Then I was here, and my kid is missing."

"You're fucking crazy," Pedro hissed.

"_Listen to me._" The man lowered his voice so low that he had to strain his ears to hear it. "I think I've hopped dimensions. I just need help getting back. I need to go back."

...if it weren't for the voice crack, and the pure desperation emanating from this man, Pedro would have cried for help.

In hindsight, he definitely should have.

But it was too late now. His interest was piqued. Something about the voice - it being _his, _for starters - and how urgent the tone was.

Pedro didn't respond, but he stopped trying to escape.

"You will stay if I let you go, and you will listen."

_Fuck you, _is what Pedro wanted to say. _You're crazy, _he would have cried. But instead, despite himself, against all logic; Pedro said yes.

"Good." Slowly, the grip was released from his arm. Pedro immediately began to rub at the red mark, where he could already see the beginnings of a bruise.

They were in silence, for a few seconds. Pedro opened his mouth to talk, but immediately shut it again.

He had no words.

They'd left him, alongside his soul. Poof, gone. When he left the goddamn apartment that day he would never have expected... this.

"I have to get back soon," he eventually said. "Security will get concerned. They probably think you've killed me."

"You're an actor," said the man, completely disregarding what Pedro'd just said.

Pedro nodded. "And you have my face."

"No," he growled. "This is _my _face. We look the same. We are not the same."

Suddenly the doppleganger's entire posture changed. It became hostile. There was a glint in his eyes that sent shivers down his spine - despite it being his own goddamn face.

Still, he wondered...

"Your face, my face— whatever. If you really are," Pedro's eyes raked up and down his figure, "who you say you are, then understand this." He planted his feet beside each other and straightened himself to his full height, "The rules are different here. If you're still around after the convention has ended, I'll talk to you again, but don't hold your breath."

He stared for a second. Then, without another word, situated his helmet securely back on his head.

"Deal."

.~.-.~.

At the end of the day, the bastard was still alive.

In one piece. Sitting all by himself at the only clean table in the food court section.

"I said I'd talk to you if you were still here," Pedro sighed. The guy looked up, but didn't respond. "So." He took a seat opposite. "What do you want me to do with you?"

There's a beat of silence. The Mandalorian shifted in his chair.

"I need residence for the period of time that I'll be here. I need to know everything about this planet and what I need to do to survive. I need shelter, food, and currency, and the knowledge to sustain myself." Another pause. "And I need work."

The last sentence sent a chill down his spine. Oh, god. He wished he didn't have the information that he did.

If this guy is real, if- if for some reason, somehow, some way, this is real?

This man has killed people.

"Right off the bat, then." He bit his lip. "We don't have bounty hunters here. We- uh, well, we do, but... it's not legal. And it has a different title."

The Mandalorian shifted again.

Now, with the helmet, he was as menacing as Pedro always pictured him, as menacing as he'd tried to portray. Without it, it was like being threatened by a marshmallow in heavy-duty armour. Which made him think...

"Why did you take off your helmet?"

Din tilted his head, as if to say, come again?

"I mean because... that goes against The Way, right?"

This time, the helmet tilted to the floor. His hands were rested on the table, and his fists were clenched. "You have my face." He sighed. "And I needed you to believe me. It was the only way I could think of."

"But I thought that once you took it off you couldn't put it back on again."

The Mandalorian stared. "Yes. But you have my face. I figured an exception could be made. Especially if my suspicions of dimension-hopping are correct."

"I hope you realise how batshit that sounds."

"You don't believe me."

Pedro shifted uncomfortably. He averted his gaze to the floor. "I don't know what I believe," he muttered honestly. "You have my face. You have my voice. You have real metal armour." Saying it out loud didn't calm his nerves. He thanked the gods that he was still in a state of shock.

If this guy was telling the truth, and he really was Din Djarin, the Din Djarin, then...

It wasn't something he cared to dwell on. Not when it threatened to warp your entire grasp on reality.

"You could be a really good impersonator and a murderer. Or you could be telling the truth." Pedro shrugged. "I have no idea."

Din nodded. It was subtle, and if Pedro hadn't been paying close attention, he would have missed it. "I understand if you don't believe me. I don't even believe myself. I just need a roof over my head for one night until I can find some work," he stopped, then hastily corrected himself, "or some other means of payment."

"Look, I-" Pedro cut himself off. He knew what he had been about to say, and it was incredibly stupid. Incredibly stupid.

Every inch of this made the alarms sound in his brain. His mind screamed at him. His heart raced.

But for some reason. Some ungodly, unholy reason.

He just couldn't pass this up.

_Damn it!_

"You can stay with me. Any funny business and I'm calling the police. You don't need to worry about work. You won't find anything up to your standards on Earth."

It all felt so stupid. So ridiculous. So beyond his mental capabilities. And yet here he was, inviting some bastard that, for all he knew, was a crazy fan wanting to take his place.

So why was he doing it?

Why?

Because- because he knew desperation when he saw it? Because he could recognise it in someone's eyes?

Being an actor came with its perks, but he'd be damned if he called being able to read body language a perk.

The Mandalorian - _god, this is real, isn't it? _\- was silent for a few moments. It seemed he was contemplating something. Another moment passed, and he bowed his head. "Thank you. You have no reason to believe me."

"Yeah."

And that's all he could say.


	5. You can’t just let other people into your apartment.

CHAPTER 5

The Mandalorian was...

Well, he was everything Pedro expected him to be. Stoic and silent. Brooding. A looming sense of doom seemed to follow his every move.

But, at the same time, he was exactly the opposite of what Pedro expected him to be. He was... he was sad. Very sad. And scared. It wasn't very hard to guess why.

The phone in his pocket buzzed ten times in a row. He ignored it.  _ Maybe I shouldn't have texted Jon. _

"Um," Pedro started, and Din jumped. He seemed to have been staring into space. "You can have the spare room. It doesn't have a window though, so it might get a little stuffy."

"That's fine," Din paused. "Thank you."

"Yeah... uh, the bathroom is just down the hall, and then my room is the first door on the left. If you need anything you should knock. But I'm a heavy sleeper so I might not wake up..."

Every word he said only made him more and more convinced at how insane this was. He should stop; he needed to just kick this guy out, there's- there's no such thing as dimensional travelling.

And yet.

"If you get hungry there are some apples... I need to restock the fridge..."

There was another buzz in his pocket.  _ In a minute, Jon. _

"And there's water..."

Another buzz.

"If you need clean clothes then you can borrow mine." They stared at each other for a moment. "Since we're the same size."

"I don't think we're the same size."

He blinked.

"I'm stronger," Din continued.

"That's..." Pedro was going to refute, but then he realised: he had a point. "That's fair. Well..." he sighed. "I'll be off to bed, and..." he waved his hands around. "Yeah."

He went to bed, but there was no way in hell he was going to be able to sleep. Especially as he heard the Mandalorian enter through to the spare bedroom across the hall.

Deciding he might as well do something with his time, he pulled out his phone and finally addressed the text messages from Jon.

_ Hey man. Need advice. _

_ A guy with my face and my voice is claiming to be the mandalorian. he says he thinks he dimension hopped. he's at my house because I'm batshit and couldn't say no because he looked so fucking desperate man _

_ what?  _

_ you're kidding _

_ you just let a random guy into your home? _

_ hes probably crazy? _

_ like what if hes trying to replace you? _

_ pedro? _

_ you there? _

_ oh god he killed you _

_ pedro? _

_ pedro? _

_ you cant just let people into your apartment _

_ this is a prank right? _

_ ill call the police if you dont respond within an hour _

_ Jon, I'm safe _

_ don't call police _

_ I think this is real. _

_ pedro i think youve lost your mind. im coming over _

_ he's in the spare bedroom. he's probably still awake, and I don't want to give him reasons to  _

_ be paranoid? _

_ hes making ME paranoid. im already out the door. you're insane _

_ drive safe _

He dropped his phone onto his pillow and sighed. 

He shouldn't have texted Jon at all, he knew this; he didn't want to make the man worry. Especially not after the tiring day they'd all just had. But, he couldn't deny that he felt relieved to be sharing it with someone.

Soon enough, there was an incessant knocking at the door.

"Pedro, you've lost your mind," was the first thing Jon said when Pedro opened the door. "You've taken your mind and put it somewhere and now you've lost it."

In any other circumstance, this would be funny. It was not funny.

"My mind has been gone for years." Pedro sat on the couch. He sunk into the cushions. Jon followed.

"You just... you just let him into your home? Just like that?"

"He has my  _ face,  _ Jon. My voice. He is me."

"Plastic surgery?"

"That shit can only go so far."

Jon groaned into his palms. "You've got to be kidding."

"I kind of wish I was..."

They both sat in dignified silence. Jon slumped back into the couch, exasperated. Pedro sat stiff as a brick.

"Do you want me to stay overnight?" Jon asked suddenly. "To make sure he doesn't come at you with a knife, I mean."

Pedro thought for a moment. "No. No it's fine. I know it's been a long day for you. You should go home and sleep in your own bed."

"I just..." he sighed. "You have a lock on your bedroom door, right?"

"Yeah, and I intend to use it."

"Good, good."

There was another long stretch of silence.

"Are you sure?"

"Jon."

"Okay. Okay, well..." Jon stood from his seat with a huff. "If you've got this under control... I'll leave you be. You'll call me if something happens, right?"

"I will."

"Okay."

Just as Jon was about to leave the apartment, Pedro leaned in for a hug. "Thank you. You didn't have to come all the way here."

"You're my friend," Jon patted his back. "Plus, who'll replace you if you die?" he chuckled.

"Har, har. I'm sure you'd find someone."

"There's no one better." With one last smile, Jon turned on his heel and left.

As soon as the door shut, the sound of another door creaking open filtered into the room.

"Who was that?" came the modulated voice of the Mandalorian.

"A friend, he's the-" he paused.

As far as he was aware, Din didn't know about the show. Perhaps it would be best to keep it that way.

"He was just... checking in."

"You were talking about me."

Pedro stared for a moment.  _ No use in lying.  _ "Yes. We were."

"You don't trust me."

"I hope you don't take it to heart," he'd intended for that to come out as sarcastic but found he couldn't bring himself to do it. "Usually people like you end up in mental hospitals."

"Why?"

Pedro blinked. He noticed now that Din wasn't actually wearing his armour, just his undershirt, pants, and *helmet. "Why?" Pedro repeated, "Because it's crazy. It's honest to god crazy."

"Then why did you let me stay?"

He slumped back down onto the couch, planting his face in his palms. He exhaled. "I don't know. I really don't know."

There was the gentle sound of approaching footsteps- the Mandalorian was surprisingly light-footed- and he saw two bare feet appear in front of him. God, those were  _ his _ feet. This was the same person. It was real. Pedro had never needed a reality check as badly as he did in that moment.

"If you want me to leave," Din paused. "Then I will leave."

"No." Pedro looked up, and found Din staring down at him. He was closer than he'd previously thought. "You can stay..."

What's life without a little craziness, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm batshit and sleep deprived, so I made a tumblr for the fic! You can go there and find art I do for the fic because that's the sort of thing I'm drawing now i literally nothing else. I'll probably also post sneak peeks for future chapters. Here's the link: https://curioushappenstance.tumblr.com/


	6. I regret teaching you how to work the TV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've seen the tags, you would know that this is a slice of life fic. that's mostly how it'll be from here on, with a little bit of plot every now and then <3 enjoy the tooth-rotting fluff and the hellish levels of angst that is soon to come.

"Everyone on this planet is human."

Pedro looked up from his cereal. Din sat across the table from him, still wearing a helmet, not even having touched the toast Pedro had prepared. They had been sitting in silence up until that point. It occurred to him that the Mandalorian had probably watched him eat the entire time.

"I'd hope so."

"Why?"

Pedro cleared his throat. How could he phrase this? "Well. We haven't exactly got space travel yet. I mean, we've gone to the moon. And we're working on going to Mars. But..." he shrugged. "No aliens."

"Surely other planets in the galaxy have space travel."

"If they do, they haven't bothered to share it with us. Some people doubt aliens even exist, which is stupid, because the Universe is huge. It's infinite. There's gonna be other lifeforms out there..." he gestured to Din. "You're living proof. But you're from another dimension so- so maybe it doesn't count." Talking about it so casually felt strange.

Just yesterday, Pedro had been living a normal actor's life, conducting interviews and meeting fans, but now... he was sitting at his dining table eating breakfast with the character he fucking plays.

He pinched himself for the tenth time that morning (the first pinch was before he entered Din's room, the second was when he saw the bastard fast asleep on the bed without a helmet, and the third was after he'd left).

"This planet is Earth."

"Yes."

"Incredibly creative."

Was that sarcasm? It must've been. "Don't blame me," Pedro chuckled. They quickly delved into silence once more. Now though, he was beginning to feel self-conscious, so he picked up his bowl and emptied its contents into the sink before loading it into the dish-washer.

"You should eat," Pedro gestured to the toast. "I'm going out. I have- uh, I have work."

"Yes. You're an actor," Din said, repeating what he'd stated the day before.

"Yes, so I'll only be back by dinner time probably, or even later... so don't kill yourself while I'm gone. You remember how to use the TV?"

Din glanced over at the remote. Pedro had spent five minutes to teach him how to use it, how to switch channels, so he wouldn't get bored while he was away. It's not like he could go outside. That was a bad idea. "Yes," he said confidently. But Pedro could tell that, even with the helmet on, that Din wasn't so sure.

"Okay," he said anyway. "Well, I'll be off then." 

He paused at the doorway, taking a moment to glance back at the Mandalorian, *still staring at the remote.

He would deny it later, but at that moment, he smiled.  
  
  


* * *

It was pitch black by the time Pedro got back to his apartment. The light was on, so either Din was still awake or he forgot to turn the light off. Or maybe he couldn't remember how.

He juggled through his assortment of keys, but *paused when he heard muffled talking on the other side. It didn't take a genius to figure out what it was.

_ Shit_, he rushed through the keys, desperately trying to find the right one, _ shit shit shit! _

He jammed the key into the *lock, and in one swift movement, unlocked it and threw the door wide open.

Din sat on the sofa, helmet-less. He was curled up into a tight ball, unblinking. The TV played out a scene Pedro recognised all too well. _ Of course, _ Pedro sighed. _ I should have fucking known _. He'd left Disney+ open the day before, for the premiere of chapter eight... Din must've turned on the TV and that would of bloody course be the first thing he saw.

"Din?"

No response. Just a blank stare.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you about it. I just didn't know how well you'd take it."

Slowly, Din turned his head, still unblinking. Pedro, to his utter despair, could see the tears in the Mandalorian's eyes.

"I experienced this," he croaked, then seemed to recoil at how strained his voice sounded. "Just yesterday. I experienced this." He finally blinked, then blinked three more times. He was trying to blink the tears away. He was not used to showing emotion in front of people, it seemed. It didn't matter much if he cried with the helmet; if he was silent, no one would see it.

Pedro nodded solemnly. In that moment the Din on TV was thrown into the air by an explosion. "I should've told you about it."

"What is it?" real-life Din turned his attention back to the screen. "I don't understand how this exists."

"It's... it's a show. For entertainment. It has writers and directors. Actors. People pay to watch it."

TV-Din was dragged back into the imperial bar by Cara.

"Entertainment."

"Yes, it's-"

"My life is a living hell for the purpose of_ entertainment_?"

Pedro shut his mouth tight. The two stared at each other. "They think you're fictional."

"Is everything I've been through because of the will of a few story writers?"

_ Oh, god, was it? _

He hadn't thought about it before. When a new story was created, and written, did it create a new dimension? A new universe? Every decision. Were writers actually gods, without even knowing it?

"I don't know," Pedro eventually settled on. "I don't know how this whole thing works."

"The one who visited last night. Was he a writer?"

"He's a director. He- he tells us, the actors, what to do. How to do it. But he is also a writer. He does a few things, he even played a character..."

"You say character like we're not real people," Din snapped.

Pedro paused. This wasn't going well. He thought he would wait until explaining this all to him, but he's gone and discovered it for himself. "Um. Um, yeah. Sorry. I'll try not to say that anymore, just... a force of habit..."

But this time the Mandalorian didn't respond. Instead, to Pedro's surprise, he buried his head between his knees.

It was a very vulnerable and sad position. He wouldn't have expected to see someone like Din Djarin sitting like that.

On the TV, they'd just found the remains of the Mandalorian massacre. Pedro moved to grab the remote.

"Leave it on," came Din's muffled voice.

"I didn't think you would want to relive this."

"It's fine."

There was an audible sniff.

Pedro stood back awkwardly. He couldn't help but stare. He'd always portrayed the Mandalorian as this emotionally stunted badass single-dad, but now he realised, there was so much more he hadn't seen. So many moments that the writers wouldn't even dream of. This was a real human being. With a real life.

It was... in a way, almost mesmerising; imagining the life that Din leads, day to day, doing normal human things. He was a person. He was stressed. He felt sadness and fear and anger.

Now he was curled up into a ball, hugging his knees, and crying on Pedro's couch. 

It made him wonder; when was the last time the Mandalorian even had a chance to cry?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Official Tumblr: https://curioushappenstance.tumblr.com/  
My Instagram: https://instagram.com/not_harmonious


	7. Bedhead or Helmet-Hair?

The Mandalorian was brooding.

It wasn't exactly a sight to behold. Din brooded in the show all the time. Pedro had acted out a brooding scene the day he got back and discovered the actual one seated at the dining table with his chin rested upon his closed fist.

He tried to give him personal space. When Din wore the helmet, it usually meant he didn't want to talk. But his distance only seemed to worsen the brooding.

As a result, Pedro came to work one day in a foul mood.

Jon approached him first, after they decided to take a break. Pedro couldn't seem to get down the lines. Not in the way that Jon wanted. "They're too angry," he'd say, and sigh. It only made Pedro more upset.

"Are you okay?" Jon sat opposite of him. "You haven't touched your sandwich."

"Fine."

"Is that guy giving you trouble?"

This was a question Jon would ask every day. Every day, Pedro would say, "No, he's fine." But today it was different.

"I guess you could call it that."

Jon leaned forward. "What did he do?"

"He's brooding."

"I see." He leaned back. "Why?"

Pedro shrugged. "He's had the helmet on for the past week. I don't want to bother him about it, but every day he just seems to be getting worse."

When Jon didn't respond, he looked up from the table and was met with a concerned expression.

"What?" he asked, poking at the sandwich.

"You really believe him, don't you?"

Pedro stared back down at the table. Did he? Did he believe him? He said as much, but...

The whole thing was ridiculous. It was impossible. It was stupid.

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

There was a beat of silence. The room steadily became louder as the crew began to filter in, having finished their lunch. Someone came over to Jon and muttered something to him.

"I'll be there in a minute," Jon said in return, then turned his attention back to Pedro. "You realise it's crazy, right?"

"Jon," he sighed. "Of course I do. I tell myself that every day. But... I just, I couldn't not. You would understand if you'd seen him, when he came to me. And then... and then a little while ago..." he lowered his voice to a whisper, leaning in so Jon could hear him. "He found the show and watched all of it. When I got back, he was crying. He was really crying. I can't not believe him."

Someone called Jon's name.

"Okay." Jon bit his lip. "Okay. If you believe it, then... I suppose I do as well." With that, he got up from his chair and got to work.  
  
  


.~.-.~.  
  
  
  


The negative atmosphere in the apartment was affecting Pedro's career. That was where he drew the line. As soon as he stepped through that door, he immediately beelined to Din's room. With newfound courage, he pounded on the door.

There was the sound of rustling sheets, a small thud, pattering footsteps, and before he knew it, the door swung open.

There Din stood, without any of his armour on. At all. Just the spare shirt Pedro had leant him and some shorts.

He looked way too casual.

"You," Pedro rested his index finger on Din's chest. "Will tell me what's wrong."

Din didn't respond. He only turned his gaze downwards, at the finger on his chest.

The bags under his eyes were all too prevalent. The bedhead (helmet hair?) was unruly and was all stuck to his forehead, which was caked in sweat. When was the last time this man had a shower?

When Din did not respond, Pedro pushed him back with his hand so he landed on the bed behind him. The Mandalorian then proceeded to cross his arms like a child, but he maintained eye-contact.

"You will tell me what's wrong," he repeated. "Your negative emotions are affecting me and I couldn't act properly today. I won't let the show suffer because of you. So talk to me."

In the new lighting, he noticed the puffy eyes. _God. He's worse than I thought._

"I'm," Din shut his mouth as soon as he spoke because his voice truly sounded like utter horseshit. He tried again after clearing his throat, "I'm fine."

"Could have fuckin' fooled me." Pedro sighed. He gestured for Din to shuffle over, and he did. He sat down next to him, letting himself sink into the bed. "Please just tell me what's wrong. I don't want you to suffer."

There was silence. Din refused to meet his eyes, gaze cast downwards at the ground, arms crossed in such a way that he could be hugging himself.

"I want," his voice cracked. He took a deep breath. "I want the kid."

Oh. _Oh. _Of course. Of _course. _How could he be so stupid? Why would anything else be the issue? How had he not noticed the distinct lack of a _green baby_?

"I'm sorry," was all he could say in response. "I'm assuming he didn't come with you."

Din shook his head. "If he did," he took a stuttering breath, like the ones you get after crying, "he's long gone by now."

Pedro sensed a need in a change of subject. So he did.

"Have you noticed that your entire posture changes as soon as you take the helmet off?"

Immediately, Din's shoulders sagged in relief. "No, I haven't."

"It does. It's like your whole personality changes."

"Mm."

The silence that followed, unlike any other silence they've previously had, was comfortable. Content. Even Din seemed more relaxed. Tense, still, yes, but talking even a little bit had done him some good. That's all Pedro could ask for.

Still, something was bothering him.

"Were you crying?"

The abrupt question had Din recoiling.

"Sorry," Pedro quickly added, "It's okay if you were. I cry a lot. Well, not recently, I'm happy, really, but, I've cried, a lot. I do cry. I've had many crying sessions, um." He shut his mouth before he went on a tangent.

Din didn't seem to mind, though, and even seemed to relax. But he still didn't confirm or deny the question.

"It's fine if you don't want to answer. In fact, if I ever say or ask something that makes you uncomfortable, then, then you should tell me, and, and I'll-"

"I'm not a child," Din grumbled. "If I don't like what you're saying, you'll know."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

It seemed there was a lot more to deal with than just a lone, clueless Mandalorian.

There was PTSD mixed in there somewhere. Then, of course, having to adjust to a foreign world. Plus the pain of being separated from his child. It was a recipe for disaster. If they weren't careful, Din would fall into a spiral, and... and that's something they needed to avoid at all costs.

Pedro would _not let it happen. _Even if it cost him his entire livelihood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how I feel about how this one is written. But I hope y'all enjoyed it.
> 
> Tumblr: https://curioushappenstance.tumblr.com/


	8. Is the roof interesting?

There was something about watching an alien react to Earth pop-culture.

Christmas had come to a close, but as the old saying goes: Christmas isn't over until it's the New Year, okay?

So on his day off, he sat Din down on the couch and piled up an abundance of Christmas movies. 

It would be a long night, but if it cheered Din up, even a little, it would be worth it.  
  


.~.-.~.  
  


It wasn't long before Pedro realised he'd started treating the Mandalorian like a brother. Technically, they _were_ brothers. The same person but different dimensions; surely they'd have the same DNA, right? So, brothers it was.

He decided to keep it to himself.

Din was... he was still brooding. He was still sad. But at least... at least he seemed to know now that he was allowed to talk about his emotions at any time. That, of course, didn't mean he did but. It was the thought that counted.

Pedro would come home from work late at night and Din would be asleep on the couch or contemplating existence at the dining table. Once he even found him sprawled on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. That was... it was interesting.

"Is the roof interesting?" Pedro chuckled at his attempt at humour. Din did not chuckle.

"Something wrong?" he asked this time. Din's helmet tilted to look at him, then moved back to its original position.

Pedro, being Pedro, walked right up to him and peered down. He stared into the visor, hoping he was making direct eye contact. "If you're going to lie down then you should at least lie down on your bed."

There was an audible sigh from under the helmet.

It seemed that the helmet was not only a physical barrier but also an emotional one. When Din didn't want to talk or move or really do anything at all, the helmet stayed on. Or, like the other night, when he was feeling more open, he would leave it off.

It was a strange sight, to see Din wear the helmet, but none of his other armour. With the various band shirts Pedro had lent him he looked quite out of place.

It's like his life wasn't weird enough already.

"You're going to give yourself a sore back," Pedro leaned down and attempted to hoist Din up by his shoulders. The bastard made no attempt to help, and Pedro wasn't strong enough to pick him up.

So he dropped him with a loud thud. Din groaned.

"Yeah, well that's what you get." He huffed.

But still the Mandalorian made no attempt to move. So Pedro decided to give up and instead get to making dinner.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had to cook so much. Usually, he would order takeout but he wasn't sure Din would appreciate greasy food. Or it might be a blessing, who knows; either way, he wasn't going to be responsible for Din becoming fat.

He cracked some eggs into a pan. They made a satisfying sizzle noise.

"I want to accompany you tomorrow."

Pedro nearly dropped the pan. He turned towards the Mandalorian. "What?"

"To your work."

"I... I don't think that's a good idea."

"Doing anything other than sitting in here all day would be a blessing," he sighed. "I'm... not used to being in one place for too long. With nothing to do."

There was a beat of silence.

"Usually I have work to keep me distracted," he continued. "from _emotions," _he spat the word like it personally offended him. "But there's nothing to do here. Rewatching those films over and over doesn't work."

Pedro hadn't realised he'd been rewatching them. At the time, he seemed to scoff and nitpick all of them (except for Die Hard, which he actually seemed to be quite fond of), but if he was rewatching them then maybe the Christmas spirit was getting to him. Even though he didn't quite have a grasp on what Christmas was yet.

"I just... I don't know it's a good idea for you to leave. The apartment. Because... I mean, you don't know anything about Earth really but also, you look exactly like me. People will ask questions. And you can't come to the set in that helmet which I know you won't like."

"How am I supposed to learn about Earth if you won't let me?" Din got up from the floor and pointed an accusing finger. "I asked for the knowledge to sustain myself. You have not provided it."

Pedro shook the pan lightly.

Din was bored. He got that. But was it really a good idea to let him leave? It would probably stop the brooding, at least temporarily. But... never mind being in public, it was being at the set he was most worried about. He couldn't have Din bursting into tears in front of the entire crew. Especially since the... the kid would be there, but it wouldn't be the kid, it would be an animatronic and that wouldn't fly with the Mandalorian.

"Pedro."

He jumped. It took him a few seconds to process, and then when he did, he realised that was the first time the Mandalorian had actually addressed him by name.

"Please."

Pedro turned his gaze back over and saw that he'd taken the helmet off. God. He looked so sad.

"You... you can't come tomorrow." Pedro held up a hand to stop him from protesting, "but maybe some other time. I need to discuss it with Jon. And I also want to get you a phone."

"A phone?"

"Yes, um," he fished his own phone out of his pocket. "This thing. It's used for communication mostly. But also, and here's the best part," he opened it up and tapped on the web browser, "you can search for anything you want and you'll get an answer."

He handed the phone to Din, who stared at it. "Anything."

"Anything."

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. "I suddenly have nothing to ask."

Pedro chuckled. "Well," he took back the phone, "I'll get you your own phone and then you can search for whatever whenever."

Din stared at his now empty hands, then looked back up at Pedro. "Thank you."


	9. Of course you should get him a phone.

Pedro approached Jon the next day during break.

"Din wants to come to the set."

"Oh god," Jon scrunched up his face, "he _does _want to replace you."

Pedro rolled his eyes. "He's bored. He's really bored. He's never been in one place for so long, he said it himself."

"Do you think it's a good idea to let him? Especially with..." he gestured to the now inanimate baby Yoda.

"I don't know..." One part of him wanted to let Din see everything. Let him explore every nook and cranny. The other part knew it would only upset him. "He's sensitive."

Jon gave him a weird look.

"I'm serious. He's... really emotional. I wasn't expecting it at all."

"I guess it makes sense." Jon averted his gaze to the floor. "After everything he's been through."

"I think he has PTSD, too. And some sort of, um, mild depression?"

"What, seriously?"

"Yeah. He's also pretty fucking peeved that his life was at the mercy of writers."

"Oh." He sighed.

"Should I get him a phone-?"

Jon blinked. "Are you serious? Din Djarin with social media? It's a shitstorm waiting to happen. Of course you should get him a phone."

Pedro laughed. It was probably the first time he'd laughed in a couple of weeks. "You're completely right. Maybe he should stay away from _twitter _for a while, though."  
  
  


.~.-.~.  
  
  
  


He... was fine. He was fine.

That's what he would tell himself at least.

Pedro would leave for work every morning, and come back when it's pitch black. They would have dinner and then sleep, and the process repeated.

Or, at least, Pedro would sleep. Din... he would try, really. He would. But even as he lay there for hours, unmoving, eyes shut tight, and fucking exhausted, he couldn't sleep.

Maybe he'd drift off, but then he'd wake in a cold sweat less than an hour later.

He never had to deal with nightmares before. He'd always been busy, distracted, by either a job or the kid. But now all he had were his own thoughts. It drove him fucking crazy.

He didn't tell Pedro about it. He knew he should, but sharing emotions had never been his forte. It made him uncomfortable. Made him feel weak.

So he kept it to himself and kept the helmet on. So that Pedro couldn't see the bags under his eyes.

Every day he stared at himself in the mirror, and every day he looked just a little bit more like a pile of shit. He was so pale he was translucent. The pink scars littered across his face and the dark shadows around his eyes only stood out more. And after crying, lines stained his cheeks. His hair stuck to his forehead. All of Pedro's clothes hugged him way too tightly and, during a time when he was particularly... not okay, he felt like they were choking him.

And then he'd talk to Pedro over dinner like nothing was wrong.

The process repeated.

When was the last time he'd allowed himself to feel so much pain? He must've been no older than ten. Now look at him, after three decades of repressing his emotions they were all crashing into him like a tidal wave. This was why he didn't take _breaks._

He couldn't express in words how much pain he felt. Over losing the kid. _His _kid. His _son._

He didn't know if the kid was safe, or if he'd been captured, or if he was wandering the streets looking for his father. Either way, being separated from him made him want to cry. 

And he did. 

More than he'd care to admit.

The knowledge that he might be out there, afraid, alone, injured. It made his skin crawl.

What was he supposed to do?

How was he supposed to live?

His only remaining family had been ripped from him.

At least after his parents died he had the Mandalorians. At least after they were massacred, he had his son.

Now he had nothing. Nothing but a goofier version of himself who pretended to _be _him for the purpose of entertaining _other people._

It was sickening.

When he found it, the show, he was sickened. That people had been watching him. His every move. 

And then they saw his face. All of them. Dimension-hopping be damned, he couldn't still be a Mandalorian after all of this. Thousands - or even _millions_ have people have seen his face.

Pedro assured him that it didn't really contradict The Way at all. But there was still an indescribable feeling in his gut that made him want to vomit.

It had been approximately five weeks. A month and then some. That's too long to be holed up in an apartment smaller than his ship.

But, as much as he hated to admit it, Pedro was right. He couldn't just leave. People would ask questions. And he had to be comfortable not wearing the helmet in public, which was definitely not the case.

And maybe it wasn't a good idea to go to the "set" after all. If the writers would be there, he would have to fight the powerful urge to punch them all in the face and break their arms so that they might never write again.

And then he'd be arrested for assault, as Pedro put it.

At least, he thought, Pedro said he'd get him a phone. He would have all the information he needed at his fingertips. If he could truly search for anything, as Pedro said... maybe he'd at least be able to learn a little about this planet - this dimension - he'd found himself on. It was the least he could do for the time being.

He compiled a list using Pedro's pen and notepad of things he wanted to search for.

_\- Politics_  
_\- Holidays/customs (like Christmas)_  
_\- Species_  
_\- The TV show_  
_\- Pedro Pascal_  
_\- Actors for the TV show_  
_\- Space travel_  
_\- Scientists_  
_\- Currency_  
_\- Job opportunities_

It was a good list. And he was sure to add more to it eventually. In the meantime, hopefully, his handwriting would improve.

He clicked the pen. He liked clicking it. It was satisfying and it was something to do. And really it was just genius contraption, and wished his dimension had clickable writing utensils; even if it was just so he could continuously click them.

Pedro didn't seem to like it though. He actually requested he stop clicking while he was around because it was 'distracting'. But the clicking had provided a sense of comfort, and it was hard to stop once he got started.

A week went by of this pen clicking thing and one day Pedro came back with an assortment of squishy toys. "They're stress balls," he said when Din gave him A Look. "When you're stressed and tense you squeeze it."

They helped, a bit. But he still preferred the pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all be honest, is there anything I should change about the way I write? smth feels off about my writing in these chapters and I can't put my finger on it
> 
> also, yes, I am aware that Pedro has a dog and lives in a house, not an apartment! But I didn't know that when I started writing this so it's too late to change it lol
> 
> Fic Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance  
Instagram: https://instagram.com/not_harmonious


	10. Absolutely necessary (with a wink).

He was restless. There was no doubt about that. As soon as Pedro left the apartment, Din was pacing. If he wasn't pacing, he was jiggling his knees on the couch. If he wasn't doing that, he'd be clicking his pen.

Which was why he felt incredible relief when Pedro finally came home with a phone.

"Here," the actor slid the rectangular device over to him. Din immediately grabbed it.

"I haven't set it up yet. You'll probably want to do that all yourself."

He pressed the button which he understood to be the 'on' button, and the device lit up.

He did what the words on the screen instructed, with help from Pedro - noting with fascination the many many languages on the first page - until the device was finally set up.

Pedro then assisted him in setting up his password properly, and getting some 'applications' that he deemed "absolutely necessary" (with a wink).

"And you're done. You can probably work out the rest on your own."

Din stared at the new home page of his device. It was pleasant to look at, if a bit bright.

("You can turn down the brightness."

"No, that's fine.")

The first order of business: search for as many things as possible.

.~.-.~.

_Din's Notes: _ _  
_

_politics: it's not uncommon for planets to have a political party system, but earth's might work differently. I should invest time in this area of research._

_\- at least over a hundred-fifty separate countries + communities_

_\- USA is a global superpower. their primary parties consist of the democrats and the republicans - however, it used to be the democratic-republicans and the federalists, before the federalist party was disbanded._

_\- global superpowers consist of: usa/america, russia, china, india, brazil, the european union (great britain?)_

_\- the current president of the usa - which was voted in - is donald trump, however he is currently in the process of being impeached... sounds like the right decision_

_most countries are a democracy. however, there are some monarchies, as well as dictatorships. see north korea_

_Holidays and customs: christmas is a tradition that consists of giving gifts on the 25th of the last month. it seems I came to this dimension mere days after this holiday. the holiday originates from the religion of christianity. I should invest time into researching religions at a later date._

_\- the tradition of christmas is lying to children about a 'santa claus' who is a fat bearded man who gives presents to all the 'nice children'. _

_\- easter is a holiday in which you eat chocolate. sounds fun. there is an easter bunny. another lie to children_

_\- halloween is a day in october which consists of dressing up in costumes and travelling from door to door asking for sweet foods. this is called trick or treating. see day of the dead_

_\- another lie to children is the existence of a 'tooth fairy'. she is a small winged human who gives one or two 'dollar' credits in exchange for a tooth that has fallen out._

_\- thanksgiving is an american holiday in which people feast on - usually - turkey, which is a bird. it is a holiday that celebrates the slaughtering of the natives? should ask pedro about this._

_The Mandalorian: "The Mandalorian, also known as Star Wars: The Mandalorian, is an American series created by and released on Disney+. It is the first live-action series in the Star Wars franchise. Set five years after the events of Return of the Jedi and 25 years prior to the events of The Force Awakens, it follows the title character - a Mandalorian bounty hunter - and his exploits beyond the reaches of the New Republic._

_Favreau also serves as head writer and showrunner, as well as executive producer, alongside Dave Filoni, Kathleen Kennedy, and Colin Wilson. The Mandalorian premiered with the launch of Disney+ on November 12, 2019, with its eight-episode first season. A second season has been ordered, which is set to premiere in October 2020. The series has received positive reviews."_

_I don't need to read any more._

_Pedro: a 'chilean' actor. parents were refugees? I should inquire about this to him when we are better acquainted. hes 44 (older than me! why?) and has been in numerous 'shows'... the most notable being a series titled 'game of thrones'. he's also been in a show about drugs, which is titled Narcos._

_mandalorian actors: pedro plays me. _

_gina corano plays cara._

_julia jones plays omera_

_werner herzog plays the client - is actually a very sweet man, apparently_

_carl weathers plays greef carga_

_nick nolte played kuiil_

_taika waititi voiced ig11_

_giancarlo esposito played moff gideon_

_a young boy named aidan bertola played the child version of myself... I don't know how to feel about this._

_space travel: hasn't been invented yet but men have been on earth's moon. there is only one moon. it was creatively titled "the moon"._

_NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration) is the sole agency that works towards space travel._

_scientists: most notable in history would be albert einstein. he revolutionised how humanity views reality._

_currency: in basic, the credits are called 'dollars'. there are coins and paper that represent certain amounts. why make it out of paper? this seems dangerous. what if its dropped into some water? would it then be useless?_

_other countries make these 'notes' out of water-proof materials, such as australia. this is much safer._

_possible job opportunities: cant be bounty hunter. oh well. I doubt I could work in a shop without killing anyone. there is something called 'college', or 'university', where a person can go to learn specific skills and this helps people obtain work. something I should look into. I don't much feel like being in a school environment, however._

.~.-.~.

With the new technology at his disposal, Din found he now had his much-needed distraction. He must've spent all night writing things in the notepad, searching them up, sketching things, making notes.

The currency fascinated him. The politics disgusted him. The illegality of bounty hunting confused him, but he supposed he understood. Even if he didn't like it. It's not like he needed credits just yet, anyway.

The climate change situation concerned him. There was such an easy fix, and yet governments all around the world were too corrupt and full of greed to do anything about it. 

Then there was the destruction of beautiful reefs, bush fires, the Amazon Rainforest burning. There was no _good _news. Nothing like, "cute baby sweeps the nation", to cheer everyone up, a break from all the natural disasters...

The thought of babies sent a pang through his chest. He changed his line of thinking immediately.

"I didn't want to say it," he said, one night, over dinner. "But your planet is fucked."

Pedro looked up from his plate. Blinked. Then laughed. "Yes, it is! It's all fucked. Hopefully I'll be dead before it's too late."

"You have no backups. None of the planets in your system are habitable."

"They're planning on sending a mission to Mars."

"Mars isn't habitable."

Pedro shrugged. "They seem pretty keen on it. I'm sure they'll figure something out. You should watch The Martian movie..."

Din sighed. "Those films are not realistic."

"A lot of people say your universe isn't realistic." Pedro winked.

"...I suppose."

There was the clinking of cutlery as Pedro finished his meal. Din was barely halfway through. He stared down at it, using the fork to pick at the bits he wasn't keen on.

"Something wrong?"

Din looked up and saw Pedro staring at him, his expression one of concern. He hated it. "No. I'm fine."

"You've been picking at your meal for ten minutes."

He shrugged. 

"Does it not taste good?"

"It tastes fine. You're a good cook."

"So something is wrong, then."

"I'm _fine._"

He didn't like to glare at Pedro. There was always a flash of pain in his eyes. But it was a habit. He was so used to his expression always being hidden by the helmet.

Even if Pedro felt hurt, though, he never let it show. He always smiled.

It was something Din envied. His ability to pretend to be happy.

"Sorry." Din turned back to his meal. "I'm just not hungry."

"You don't have to finish it." Pedro's voice was softer, now. Less accusing, more understanding.

"To not finish it would be a waste."

"Really, it's fine. I know you're probably used to eating everything on your plate because you have to. But we won't run out."

It was true. Pedro made sure that his food storage was always stocked. Din never had that much, always settling on a ration bar to get him through the day. Sometimes he would go days without eating. It had just become a habit, something he was used to. Now he was having two meals a day with an apple for lunch.

He carefully settled the cutlery back onto the plate. "Are you sure?"

Pedro nodded.

"Thank you." He stood from the table and picked up the plate. "I should clean-"

"No, I'll deal with that. You should rest." Pedro took the plate from him. "I know you haven't been sleeping."

Din's heart sunk. He didn't want Pedro to know, but it seemed the bags under his eyes were just too obvious, even in the darker lighting of the dining room.

He didn't protest, though. Instead, he dragged his feet to the guest bedroom and settled down for another long, sleepless night.

.~.-.~.

He had managed to drift off sometime during the night, listening to the light rain hitting the ground outside. By the time he woke up, he had no idea what time it was - only that it was pitch black, his heart was racing, he was cold, and his throat hurt.

He didn't remember much of the nightmare. He supposed it was for the better. He was still flustered, though, so he stumbled his way to the bathroom.

He was in much need of a shower.

.~.-.~.

When he emerged, wrapped in multiple towels, the light was on in Pedro's room. He normally wouldn't have thought anything of it, but Pedro was rarely up this late, and it concerned him.

So he knocked on the door.

The door slowly opened, and Pedro peeked through the crack. "Oh," he was silent for a moment. "I heard your yell earlier. Are you alright?"

His yell? Had he called out in his nightmare? "Did I wake you?"

"Um... yeah, little bit. I was going to go check on you but then you got into the shower so I was going to wait until you were done..."

"I'm sorry for waking you."

"No, no. It's fine. You look a lot better now that you've showered."

"Really."

"Yes."

There was an awkward silence.

Pedro smiled. "I just realised that it's incredibly narcissistic of me to compliment your appearance."

For the first time since his arrival, Din laughed.


	11. Stunt Double™

Pedro could tell Din was getting worse. But at least the phone provided a temporary distraction.

Truthfully, Din hadn't woken him up at all last night. Pedro hadn't slept.

He was beginning to drift off when he heard whining from the room opposite. His first thought was that someone had broken in, but the more he listened the more he recognised what was going on.

Deep down, he already knew. That the Mandalorian was dealing with nightmares. It didn't feel any better to think about when his suspicions were confirmed.

And then the whining turned into yelling. It broke his heart. That Din was going through so much, and all Pedro could do was stand back and watch.

It was strange. Din was so much more like a teenager than he would have ever thought. But he supposed it made sense. How long had he been repressing his emotions? Must've been decades. He couldn't imagine how it felt to suddenly have all of that rushing back at you, all in one go.

He was about to get up and help, really, he was. But it seemed Din woke up on his own, and had hopped into the shower.

Good. He probably needed it. And he definitely deserved it.

Then Din knocked on the door. 

This, Pedro was not expecting. 

He almost expected to see a young boy, asking to spend the night in his bed, because he couldn't sleep. That's what it felt like. Like caring for an emotionally repressed child.

But then he opened the door and it was just Din, an adult, concern laced in his eyes. He didn't voice that concern, but Pedro saw it.

He already looked healthier. His skin was red from the heat of the water. It was almost like nothing was ever wrong at all.

But then his eyes adjusted and he saw the dark bags, the scratches, the scars accumulated from battles. And he reminded himself that, yes. Something was terribly wrong.

And he couldn't fix it.  
  
  


.~.-.~.  
  
  
  


"Do you really want to come to the set?"

There was silence. Din stared up at him and blinked. "What?"

"Do you really want to come to the set?" Pedro repeated. He pushed his hands into his jean pockets to avoid fidgeting.

"I thought it was too risky."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "Jon said it would be fine. As long as you don't get in the way of anything. Or talk to any of the crew. They've been told that you're my stunt double."

Din blinked again. "Stunt double?"

"What, you expect me to do all that cool shit that you do? I'm weak. I'm a baby. I have a stunt double so I don't injure myself."

The Mandalorian squinted, seemingly having difficulties processing what was being relayed to him. "You couldn't just train?"

"I mean, I could, I guess... I did a lot of my own stuff in Narcos... but have you seen me? I'm a chub."

"You're not chubby."

"I feel chubby."

"You're not."

Pedro shrugged.

"Won't they ask me to do stunts for you?" Din shifted. "Like, fighting, right?"

"I don't think there's too much action in this episode, so you shouldn't have to do anything that I can't." Pedro paused, thinking. "Um. I just realised I'll basically be showing you a spoiler for your own life." He bit his lip. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Din was quick to protest. "I don't care about that. It's not like I'll be going back anytime soon anyway, right?"

The question hung in the air, and an awkward silence befell them.

He knew that the Mandalorian hadn't intended for it to come out the way it did, but it did. That's what counted.

"I'm sure we'll find some way to get you back. You... you got here some way, didn't you? You just have to find it again."

Din didn't respond.

"Well," Pedro cleared his throat. "We'll find something. Um, I don't think we're working on anything too 'spoilery' today. And if we are then you can go off somewhere else."

The Mandalorian nodded, satisfied. But then frowned. "I can't wear my helmet."

"Probably not. I mean you could but people would ask questions because we already have a costume why do we need another one and it'll just be a mess and I'm not sure you want a mess."

"Is there anything I can wear? To hide my face?"

"I might have a couple of things..."  
  
  


.~.-.~.  
  
  
  


The car came to a slow halt.

"So."

Din felt fucking stupid. Were all of his decisions in life just leading up to this moment? Just to fuck with him? Sure, okay, it _worked_. It worked to hide his face, for the most part. But he still felt fucking stupid.

"Before we go in, I need to tell you something," Pedro sighed. His hands were still rested on the steering wheel. He seemed reluctant to let go. "The child in there is not real. He's a puppet."

Din felt a knot form in his throat. "I understand."

"Just please don't... you know."

It went unspoken, but it was there nonetheless. "I won't."

"Okay." Pedro's hands finally came off the wheel. "Once we go in, Jon will greet us. You will not punch him in the face." Din rolled his eyes. "And you won't punch anyone else in the face either. Jon is the only one who knows about this. He'll make sure everything is under control. If he tries to interrogate you, which he will because he's a nerd, just signal for me and I'll interfere. Speaking of interfering,"

Din sighed deeply. He'd heard this talk a hundred times already just in the short car ride it took to get there.

"Don't get in the way of the crew, don't try to talk anyone unless they talk to you first, if anyone asks just say you're the stunt-double and nothing else. If they ask about you hiding your _face,_"

"...say I'm sick, yeah, I get it." He adjusted the scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth.

It was itchy. It was hot. And it made it hard to breathe. The beanie was also extraordinarily uncomfortable, especially considering how it pushed the sides of the sunglasses against his temples.

At least it _worked, _he told himself, for the fiftieth time that morning.

"And what's your name?"

"Donovan Partal."

"Where are you from?"

"Puerto Rico."

"What made you decide to become a stunt double?"

"It's been my passion since I was a young child."

"Okay. Perfect."

There was silence, the only sound being the distant traffic.

Pedro turned towards him, and as he did so, cracked open the car door. "You ready, then?"  
  
  


.~.-.~.  
  
  
  


He was a ticking time bomb.

There were questions upon questions upon questions being thrust upon him without a second thought even with Pedro's intervention. And - he got it, he did. This 'Jon' was enthusiastic and he's a writer and he's seeing one of his "characters" in real life, as a real person. But there were so many _questions. _They hadn't even reached the set yet, they were still _walking _there.

_Even worse, _he thought bitterly. _I recognise that voice._

There was a room full to the brim of artworks, ones that he recognised from the credits after each episode.

And then the costumes department, as Pedro put it. He observed numerous employees sewing or polishing one thing or another. "The armour that I wear is in my dressing room right now," Pedro had said. "Each actor has a designated dressing room where they get makeup and shit done and like, their hair... I don't need it because my face is covered most of the time."

Din tried not to focus too much on the "_most _of the time" part.

"I still need help getting into the armour though," Pedro chuckled.

They passed by the director's lounge. Din wanted to stop and see what they were doing, but Pedro very seriously shook his head and kept walking. So he sighed and followed.

Eventually, they stopped in front of a double door, which Jon fumbled with before pushing it open so hard that both sides hit the wall with a loud bang.

The room, although full of people, was... it felt like he was back. In his own dimension. For a brief second, anyway, until he noticed the bright green cloth on any and all sides of the room.

"It's called a green-screen," Pedro clarified when Din asked. "It lets the editors edit in anything they want. How do you think we got all those backgrounds without space travel?"

"Wasn't something I thought much about..." he sighed.

Jon led them over to a specific corner of the room, where there was a small wooden table with uncomfortable looking metal chairs. They all sat down in their respective chair.

Din was pleased to find no one had even spared them a glance, too busy with their duties on set.

"What scene are we doing first?"

Jon flopped a big stack of paper onto the table then flipped to a specific page. "I wanted to do the one with... uh, her."

Din raised a wary eyebrow.

Pedro, on the other hand, sighed. "Yeah, her. Very subtle."

Who? Xi'an? God, he hoped not.

"You might as well just say her name. I think you've piqued his interest anyway."

Jon sighed. "Omera, then. I want to do her scene..."

Their conversation filtered out as Din's heartbeat began playing loudly in his ears. _Omera. _God. Of all people, the only person he'd ever actually... he'd ever...

As if summoned, the doors pushed open and out walked Omera - _not Omera _ \- herself, dressed and ready. His heart skipped ten thousand beats.

_It's not her. _

"You just got here, Pedro?" she chuckled. "Better get in your suit. Who-?"

"I'm the stunt double." The words came out of his mouth before he even knew what he was saying. Not-Omera's mouth formed an O.

"I didn't realise we were doing big stunts today."

"It's just a precaution," Jon cut in as he slammed the papers shut. "In case Pedro dies or something."

They all laughed, but hers was the only one he listened to. It was beautiful. It was like a melody.

But then there was a hand on his wrist, and he looked down, realising that his fist was clenched so tight that his knuckles were turning white. He looked up at Pedro, who in turn was giving him a look of concern.

Why her? Why her of all people?

Why was she so beautiful?

Why did he feel this way?

"Are you okay?"

It was her. Her hand was rested on his shoulder, and she peered down at him with so much concern, so much heart, so much love. _It's not her._

"He's fine," Pedro cut in, "a bit sick."

"Oh, shouldn't you go home then?"

"I'm sure he's..." but before Jon could finish his sentence, Din pushed himself away from the table, the chair screeching against the hard concrete floor. He pivoted on the spot, finding the nearest door to throw open and escape through.

He wished he hadn't.

This trip had been a bad idea. He should never have asked to go. What did he expect would happen? Did he think he'd be okay with all of this?

It was not the child. It was a puppet. But it still made him slump against the wall. It still made him want to scream.

It wasn't fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/curioushappenstance
> 
> I'm not sure about how this one was written, but I couldn't be bothered rewriting it, lol. Sorry if the ending is a bit confusing. He ran into a room and that's where the child was being stored.


	12. Promise.

"Din? Din? Oh, god. I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I didn't think. Din?"

Pedro shook the man, but he didn't respond. He was shaking. He was frightened and in pain - but there wasn't anything he could _do. _It hurt so much to see his friend - _brother, even _\- be in so much _agony._

"Din," Pedro ran a hand down his spine, hopeful to at least being some semblance of comfort to the Mandalorian. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know she'd affect you like this. I'm sorry."

The baby yoda robot sat barely two feet away. It had a looming presence, which it never had before. It's like it was personally mocking him, personally mocking Din.

Jon stood awkwardly on the sidelines. He seemed afraid to even be within an arm's reach of the scene before him.

"Do you want to go-" _he almost said 'home,'_"back to my apartment?"

There was a subtle nod. And an audible sniff. Then, "I don't feel well."

"It's fine. That's fine. Jon, can I take-?"

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"Thank you."

Pedro, with all of his remaining strength, hoisted the Mandalorian up onto his feet. Din shook with every step, but eventually, they were on their way out of the set and back into the parking lot.

When they were in the car, and Din had calmed down, Pedro sighed. "I'm so sorry about this. I didn't think."

"I think," came the croaky voice of the Mandalorian, "that I should be the one saying sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen, and now I'm pulling you out of your work just because I couldn't control my emotions."

"I don't mind being pulled out of work if it's to make sure you're okay." He started the car with a rev of the engine. "You don't have to talk about it... but I would prefer if you did."

As he waited for the car to warm up, he turned his body towards Din, who was resting his forehead against the window.

He shook his head.

"Okay."

He turned back to the wheel, and with a frustrated turn of the wrist, they were off.

They arrived back at the apartment in no time, but the trip had felt hours long in the suffocating silence.

He hadn't expected Din to be so affected. He knew Omera was a character set up for a _romance, _or at least that was the impression he got, but he never would have thought it would be to this extent. Made him wonder how much Jon and the rest weren't actually telling him about the show.

He turned the knob and swung the door open in one swift motion. He caught it just in time before it slammed into the wall behind it.

"I'll have to get back to work. But I'll stay for a bit if you want to talk."

Pedro didn't move from the door even as Din sunk into the couch pillows. He fiddled with the keys still in his hand.

Din ripped off the scarf and the sunglasses, practically throwing them onto the seat beside him. He released a great sad sigh. "I thought you would know why I'm upset."

"Even if I do I'd like to hear it straight from the horses' mouth."

" 'The horses'-?"

"It's just... an expression. Look..." Pedro shut the door behind him with a click. He sauntered over to where Din sat and kneeled down in front of him. "You really like Omera, right?"

Din's fists clenched. "No point in hiding it, then?"

It was strange. Watching himself like this. Of course it wasn't really him, but - seeing his face bear such an expression was... jarring. Listening to the bite in his voice. Watching his entire body tense. It wasn't weird when he watched himself on the big screen, but that was different. Javier Peña wasn't in the flesh. Din was.

He wondered if this was what it was like to have an identical twin.

"It must hurt. To see all of these people that you know act like this."

Din said nothing, but seemed to silently agree.

"I'm sorry you had to see the... the child. Like that. I asked Jon to put it in a separate room..."

The silence was tense. Din's gaze bore into his skull. He felt like it was being crushed - like poor, poor Oberyn.

"I can't pretend to understand how you feel about this."

Being ripped away from your life. Forced into a situation you hated. 

"But if you don't talk I can't help you."

Imagine losing a child. Imagine being safe and content, then having it torn away from you in an instant.

"I can't let you spiral."

It was no wonder Din was depressed. It was no wonder he had nightmares, and broke down crying, and had panic attacks. He'd worked so hard for what he had, for four decades.

And then it was gone.

Of course he wouldn't take it well.

Pedro still marvelled at the display of emotion. Even being as closed off as he was, Din was still _willing. _He was willing to be helped. It would just take time.

Din took a deep breath. "I want to go home."

"Okay." _Okay. _"We'll figure it out." _If something brought you here, then that something can send you back._

"Can you promise that?"

It was like looking into the eyes of a child. In a way, Din was one. Discovering these emotions for the first time in decades.

He couldn't promise anything. Of course he couldn't. Because that would be lying. It would be cruel. Giving false hope. Wasn't this the moment in stories where everything started going wrong? Promises are made and immediately broken. Peoples' hearts are shattered. The damage is irreversible.

"Yes. I promise."

What a stupid idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Curious Happenstance Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> Posting two chapters this time, make sure you read the next one as well!


	13. I don't know what you're talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted two chapters, so if you didn't see the previous one, go read that :)

As it were...

Pedro was out of ideas.

He and Din had spent the whole night brainstorming. Trying to come up with something that might give them a gateway back to the Mandalorian's dimension. The session brought them nothing but sleep deprivation and headaches. And so did the one after that, and the one after that.

"What were you doing when it happened?" Pedro had asked, forehead planted on the dining table. His pen was gripped loosely in his hand, and his empty notebook lay flat on its spine. Progress; zero.

"I was in my ship," Din had responded, "and so was the child. We had just left Nevarro."

"So it was the aftermath of chapter eight."

"I don't like how you phrased that, but, yes."

Din himself was sprawled on the floor. He was facing the ceiling, expression void of any emotion, eyes dull and tired. Despite this, it was clear the man was deeply disconcerted. His right hand fiddled with a loose string on his shirt, and his left arm twitched restlessly. Every minute, he would readjust his position, as though shifting around would make lying on the cold hard floorboards any less uncomfortable.

"And you appeared at the convention."

"Yes. I was behind a pillar, so no one saw me appear."

With a frustrated groan, Pedro picked up his pen and, with all the strength he could muster, flung it across the room.

It hid the opposing wall with a quiet thud. _Not satisfying at all._

"We have no goddamn witnesses. No clues." He suddenly felt very much like Javier Peña. It wasn't pleasant.

"We'll find something."

_Oh, now you're_ _the optimistic one?_

Pedro buried his face in the palm of his hands. "This is bullshit."

"I don't understand."

"No, forget it."

_Just last month, everything was normal, _is what he wanted to say. _But then you came along, and I'm suddenly my entire world view is turned upside down. Every part of my life is chaos. I'm stressed. I'm tired. I just want to do my job, but I'm always distracted._

_Julia keeps asking about you, you know. She's like that. She wants to make sure everyone's okay. But you're in love with Omera, and as a consequence, fell in love with Julia, too._

_The rest of the crew can see how stressed I am and it's affecting the_ _m. _ _The show is suffering. We can't get anything done. Jon acts like he's fine, but the atmosphere is getting to him as well. He's just really good at hiding it._

Even with all these thoughts racing in his head, all Pedro could bring himself to do was _sigh. _And it wasn't helping. It wasn't helping his mental state and it _certainly _wasn't helping Din's.

On top of it all, Din was beginning to express interest in the fandom. It just slipped, one day, Pedro was talking and he mentioned something about the _fans, _and, it's all Din's been asking about.

_"People really care?"_

And it was sad.

_"They want me to be happy?"_

Very sad.

There was a genuine fascination in Din's eyes, and it wasn't like he _intended _for those words to sound as they did, as far as Pedro was aware... but. _It is what it is._

Because of Din's newfound fascination, Pedro could do nothing but relent and answer the questions. Nothing good could come out of hiding anything. Except... except for Tumblr, maybe. He could stay away from Tumblr forever. In fact, he could stay away from any and all social media sites.

Din didn't need to know about... that. Ever.

At least the ongoing questions kept Din's mind active. It was a temporary distraction. That was all Pedro could ask for.

"What happened? When you were transported?"

"There was a bright orange light. It engulfed the ship and my vision. I appeared here."

They'd been over it a million times. Repeating it wasn't bringing about any ideas, but... they could _try._

"We could... go back to the convention hall?" Pedro sighed. "No. That's stupid."

Din was silent. Pedro looked over, expecting to see the usual blank stare, but the expression was contemplative. His eyebrows were furrowed.

"We... could."

"What?"

"Go back to the convention hall. What if the gateway is still there?"

It almost seemed feasible. And it also seemed like something pulled straight out of a goddamn sci-fi movie. Then he remembered who he was actually talking to.

"I guess we could try." Pedro sighed for the umpteenth time. "But we'd need a pass to get in, it's not just a building we can waltz into, especially if you're using your Temporary-Non-Suspicious-Disguise." It was a working title. "And I don't even know if there's anything going on. It might be a while before there are any conventions at all. And we _definitely _can't go in when there's nothing actually happening."

"We could-"

"I am a law-abiding citizen. We're not breaking in."

"Fine."

Pedro pulled over his laptop. "I'm going to look up when the soonest convention is. If it's anything that'll ruin my reputation then we're thinking of something else."

Din hummed. It was hard to tell whether he was agreeing or just showing that he was listening, but, it was the thought that counted, he supposed.

"Okay, the next one..." the search results loaded onto the screen. "Is three weeks from now. It's..." he groaned, "a _home show._"

"A home show?"

"A convention that sells furniture."

At least his reputation would be safe. He still couldn't help but wish it had been something slightly more interesting, but... what were you going to do, really. All they needed was to find _where_ Din appeared and... see if there's a way to get him back.

Truthfully, though, the thought of Din leaving, and Pedro going back to his normal life...

...

He never got to finish his thought, however, because in that moment, the doorbell rang. Din clambered off of the floor as Pedro stood from his chair. He wanted to say he had no clue who could possibly be at his door so late at night, but he had a good inclination.

"Jon," Pedro sighed as the door swung open. "Is everything okay?"

But it was not Jon.

Nor was it any of the other directors.

It was a man; a man Pedro had never seen before. Sunglasses were fixated on his nose, a black suit was tightly-fitted around his torso, a face so straight and emotionless that it made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Pedro stumbled backwards.

"I believe you already know what I'm here for."

"I-I don't know what you're-"

_Click._

And he was staring into the barrel of a gun.

"I _believe _you already know what I'm_ here for_." The man cocked his head to one side. "Mr Pascal."

You never think it could happen to you. And when it does, you wonder how you could have been so naive and foolish.

After four decades of living as a minority, witnessing things he should have never witnessed; how was it that he still thought, _"it couldn't happen to me"_?

He'd never been so frightened. So terrified. A chill down his spine, the urge to scream so loud it'd blow his eardrums out. His heartbeat resonating throughout his entire body, travelling from his chest to his feet.

He could've described the shape of the bullet, the colour, the speed. The sound. He could've described the ringing in his ears, the yelling, and the blood staining his clothes. It was like time slowed to an absolute crawl, even as he hit the ground, and the agent at the door rushed in.

"Din," he croaked. "_Din._"

Din was nowhere to be found.

_My phone. _His phone had hit the ground as he fell. He clambered for it, wheezing and groaning at every shot of pain carried through his arm. With one bloody hand, he snatched the phone off the floor and shakily began to dial 911. Each tap left a bloody fingerprint, each sight of red made his throat tighten.

His vision swayed, the world spun, and like a light, he was out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scream at me on tumblr
> 
> I've been so worried about this sudden change in pace, specifically regarding how you guys will take it.
> 
> This is still Din's story. But, naturally, being involved with him seems to bring about a great deal amount of danger. So, as a result... this


	14. Everything is fine.

"I told you to _keep him alive._"

"He _is _alive."

"But he might not have been! Why did you have to shoot him?"

Pedro's eyes shot open. The light was blinding, and the air was cold. He was laying on an uncomfortable plastic bed that stuck to his skin.

"You're awake!" A girl came into his line of sight. A redhead, with freckles and a round face. "Thank god you're awake. I'm so sorry about all of this. My _partner _doesn't know how to follow _orders_." She shot a pointed look to the side, and Pedro heard annoyed huff.

"It's not my fault. I only pointed the gun at him to scare him, but he attacked me, and I accidentally pressed the trigger..."

"Sure, Farnes."

"I'm not lying,_ Rayna_."

"Whatever you say."

The girl - Rayna - turned back to look down at Pedro. He stared, wide-eyed and afraid.

"You can speak if you want," she said.

Pedro cleared his throat. "You're British."

A moment of silence, then laughter. "You're not even going to ask where you are? Or what happened? Just- just, 'you're British'... yeah, okay, that's fair, I guess. For the record, I'm only half British. Farnes, on the other hand..." she shrugged. "Speaking of hands," she offered her own pale hand. "I'm Ivana Rayna."

Pedro didn't shake it.

"That bastard over there is Christopher Farnes. I'm sorry he shot you. We can make sure you don't remember it if you like."

He suddenly became acutely aware of the numbness in his left arm. His first thought was, _I'm having a heart attack, _but then realised; oh, no. _That's where I was shot._

That's right. He was shot in the shoulder. _There was so much pain. _So much blood.

"It's a miracle you didn't die of blood-loss, really. By the time Farnes got you here you were as white as the walls in this room."

All the memories came flooding back. The doorbell, the man, the barrel of a gun. Fear. Worry. _Din._

_"_Din," he croaked. "Din. Where is Din?"

"You mean the Mandalorian?"

Worry and fear rippled through his body.

"We don't know."

The back of his bed suddenly began to rise, and before he knew it, he was sitting up straight. The world spun for a few seconds before stabilising and he was able to observe his surroundings. Christopher was sat to the right, hunched over in a chair, knee-shaking vigorously.

"Farnes was supposed to find the bastard and bring him here, but instead he shot you and the Mandalorian got away."

"Are you from the government?"

Christopher snorted. "No. We're from another dimension like your friend."

Pedro's mouth fell open. "You-?"

"We're trying to find a way to get back," Ivana sighed. "Which is why we wanted to take the Mandalorian. We've... been following you for a while now," she said sheepishly.

"Well, I have some bad news. We don't know how to get him back either."

She huffed. "Damn. I thought you might..."

"If we knew he'd already be gone," Pedro spat.

Now he was angry. It was like all the stress from the past month and a half was finally catching up to him. He _hated _it. And he especially hated how he allowed himself to get to a point where he _was _angry.

He clenched his fists. _I could really use some fucking music right about now. _The one thing in the world that could actually calm him down... other than punching a pillow, maybe.

"Send me home."

"We- we can't. Not until you're better."

"I feel _fine._"

"Not for much longer," Christopher sighed. "You're on pain medication but it won't last long. You lost too much blood anyway."

Ivana nodded.

"At least tell me I can leave by the end of the day." Something dawned on him, very suddenly. "How- how long was I unconscious?"

Ivana thought for a moment. "A few hours, at most. I'm not sure. We don't get out much."

_Oh, god. What about Din? Has he gone back to the apartment? Is he safe? What if something happened to him? He doesn't know how to navigate the city._

_What about Jon? The rest of the crew? What if the police go through my apartment?_

"I see the look on your face," Ivana said, "And encourage you not to worry. We already texted your friends. They think you're sick at home. We also made sure the police weren't called. People are none the wiser."

Somehow, this didn't help Pedro feel any better.

There was still the issue of _Din. _He could get himself killed.

Or... or not, but, he could be a danger to himself and to others. He didn't know etiquette yet, he... he had _Pedro's face._

God! _He has my face!_

He could only pray to whatever fucking god might be available that Din had the foresight to cover his face and wasn't about to ruin Pedro's reputation by doing something ridiculously fucking stupid.

A phone started ringing. Pedro recognised the ringtone immediately.

"Hum," Christopher hummed. "Your phone."

"Who is it?" Pedro arched his back and stretched his neck, trying to catch a glimpse at his screen.

"I thought I told you to put it on silent," Ivana hissed.

"I thought I did!"

"_Who is it?_"

"It's Jon."

"Let me have that."

Ivana picked up the phone. Her thumb hovered over answer for a moment... before she turned to Pedro with a stern expression.

"Promise you won't tell anyone who we are or what we're doing."

"Fine, whatever-"

"_Promise._" The bubbly personality had long since vanished and was now replaced with one hardened by trauma and battle. "You must promise."

Christopher's eyes were boring into Pedro's skull.

Pedro tried to swallow the knot that had formed in his throat. "I promise," he croaked. "Let me speak to Jon."

"Fine. But I'm putting him on speaker."

Suddenly, Jon's voice rang out in the room, with a very abrupt and loud, "_Pedro!_"

"Hi, Jon," Pedro said sheepishly. "I-I'm sorry that I'm si-"

_"Don't bullshit me."_

A chill ran down Pedro's spine. Of course... of course Jon would be too smart for it.

_"There's blood on your fucking carpet."_

"Um."

Ivana's thumb hovered dangerously close over the _end call _button. She glared at him threateningly.

Pedro took a deep breath. "I'm fine. I'm okay. Do you know where Din is?"

Silence, then, _"He's coming to get you."_

"What?"

It happened all at once.

The door slammed open. A gloved hand grabbed Pedro's arm, hoisting him up from the bed, and another shoved a blaster at Ivana and Christopher. Pedro's phone fell to the floor with a splintering crack.

Din shoved Pedro behind him, and Pedro stumbled, nearly falling onto the cold hard floor.

"Stay _back_," Din warned, "or I'll shoot."

He was in full armour. The polished beskar shone as bright as a lamp under the intense lights. As he moved, light reflected off of him and gave the illusion of glowing.

Ivana and Christopher ducked for cover as Din made a grab for Pedro's hand. As soon as he had a firm grip, he turned on his heel and sprinted out the door.

There was the distinct sound of frantic running, and at this point, Pedro couldn't tell if it was theirs or someone else's. The sprint from one end of the hallway to the other was the longest run of his life. His left arm was numb, his legs were like jelly, and every step made his world spin and tilt. It was like he was running on air, through the clouds - the only thing grounding him to reality was the gloved hand wrapped around his own.

Din fired his blaster, at what, Pedro didn't care enough to find out - and then they burst through the door, into the cold night air.

They didn't stop running until they reached a car, Jon's car, parked a block away. Pedro fell into the backseat, wheezing and nauseous.

"I'm sorry," was the last thing he heard before he collapsed into a void of blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, ivana and christopher... two of my oldest ocs. I hope you guys will eventually come to love them as much as I do!
> 
> scream at me on the  curious happenstance tumblr 
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	15. Well, it's okay because it was an accident.

Pain.

A lot of it.

The pain-killers had worn off. All feeling had returned to his arm now, and it returned ten-fold.

"Don't move."

Din was sitting beside him, still in full armour. Jon stood in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"Wasn't planning on it," Pedro croaked. "Did I pass out?"

"For about an hour, yes."

Pedro stared up at the ceiling. His vision swirled, and he shut his eyes tight. "Jesus," he hissed. "You realise those guys saved me, right?"

Din cocked his head to the side. "They shot you."

"And then kidnapped you," Jon said.

"They said it was an accident. Which is why they patched me up. And gave me pain meds."

Jon shifted his stance in the doorway. Din stared at Pedro intensely through his visor.

"Pedro, it wasn't an accident," Din sighed. "If the bullet was only an inch to the right your arm would be paralysed. No shot is that good on _accident_."

" 'S'just coincidence," Pedro slurred. "How do you know, anyway?"

"I might not be a doctor, but I've spent three decades learning to take care of my own wounds. I'd be dead if I didn't know basic anatomy."

"And knowing where the nerves are is _basic?_"

"Pedro..." Jon sauntered awkwardly to Pedro's side. "You could have died."

They fell into silence.

Mortality was... it wasn't often on the brain, really. Even for a role, the concept of death, and the concept of _his _death just wasn't something he thought about. Ever.

But Jon was right.

He could have died.

Christopher could have chosen not to help him, and he would have bled out on his own floor.

Not the way he pictured going.

Old age, maybe. Sickness. Hell, a car accident. He'd considered how he might die - who hadn't? - but being _shot_? Going into shock, bleeding out?

It all came flooding back to him, in an instant. The pain,his entire world turning and spinning as he tried and failed to call for help. Bloody fingerprints. Being so scared and feeling so alone. The same thought racing through his mind, over and over and over - _"I don't want to die."_

"We'll let you rest."

Din was who pulled him out of it. A gentle hand on his arm, a look that says, even with the visor, 'I'm here for you.'

"Try to sleep."

Without Din, Pedro wouldn't have been shot. But even so, he was glad. He was glad the universes fucked up. He was glad they gave him the Mandalorian.

He'd endure all the pain in all of reality if it meant Din was happy under his care.

"Goodnight."

They left. The light flickered off, and Pedro was left with only his thoughts.

Despite the pain, despite the panic, despite existentialism creeping up behind him, Pedro fell into a comfortable, deep sleep.  
  
  
  


-  
  
  
  


"It's my fault."

Jon fiddled with the hem of his jacket, awkwardly sitting on Pedro's couch. Tense, tired. "What?"

Din mumbled something under his breath. "It's my fault," he said again, louder. "It's my fault he was shot."

Jon stared at him for a moment before averting his gaze to the floor. The colour was completely drained from his face, and every other part of him, too. He shivered even though it wasn't cold. "It's not."

Din sighed. Exasperated. Annoyed. Generally pissed. And so, so afraid.

He could've lost Pedro. He could've lost... a person he could trust, genuinely, truly trust. Someone he cared about. Someone other than the child that he was _afraid_ to lose.

And it was his fault. It was his fault.

"They came for me. And I hid. Like a... like a _hut'uun_."

He'd let his guard down. He grew so accustomed to the safety and security that Pedro's home provided, he let his fucking guard down and as a result, Pedro got _shot._

It didn't have to be the shoulder. It could've been his heart. And then where'd Din be?

Alone.

"So what if they did," Jon muttered. "You're not the one who pulled the trigger. And you're not a coward, either."

He'd have nowhere to turn. Alone in a world he knew nothing about.

"They came for me, they were hunting _me_. I was lazy and I thought I was safe. So Pedro got shot."

And now, he was dangerously close to breaking into tears in front of the bastard who played Paz Visla.

He had recognised the voice, when they met. It was almost funny. He could've laughed. Because, how ridiculous was that?

He never saw eye to eye with Paz. And every waking moment with Jon was spent trying not to punch him. This man who had only brought pain and suffering.

Din _hated _him.

He hated that, no matter how hard Din tried, Jon only saw him as a character.

He hated every inch of this man's being. He despised how passionate he was about the show. How happy he was to cause misery.

What plans did he have? What had Din only narrowly avoided? If he'd stayed in his own dimension, how many people would he lose? How many times would his son be torn from his grasp? Would anyone be safe?

All because a couple of damn writers had a stupid fantasy.

"Did you know the attack was going to happen?" Jon asked, pulling Din out of his thoughts.

"No," he grumbled, somehow not feeling offended that Jon would imply such a thing.

"Was there anything you could have done to stop it from happening?"

"No."

"Then it's not your fault."

"That's fucking stupid."

Jon looked hurt.

He couldn't hide it as well as Pedro did. Din hated that, too.

There was awkward silence. The only sounds were the cars passing by on the roads below, and Din's own heartbeat playing loud in his ears.

"I... I don't know what I did," Jon started hesitantly. "To make you hate me so much."

They locked eyes. It was like Jon knew exactly where to look. He probably did.

"But I'm sorry."

_"You wanna know what you fucking did?" _is what Din wanted to say. _"You want to know how much pain you and your other writer friends have caused me?" _he wanted to scream.

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to. Something in the way that Jon's eyes darted across his armour. Like he couldn't actually believe it was real.

Instead, he didn't say anything. And he continued to not say anything until Pedro woke up.  
  
  
  


-  
  
  


Nothing could've prepared him for it.

His life going from normal to batshit insane. Pedro approaching him one day with - what he thought at the time - delusions of grandeur.

But then actually meeting him? Shaking his hand? Looking through those sunglasses and staring into the eyes of fiction. Seeing Din's prolonged glares, how his fists would clench. Every mannerism that everyone had grown accustomed to, but this time, it _wasn't acting._

And Jon had never been more perplexed. At first, he thought, _maybe I'm going crazy, too._

But it was him. That was Pedro's face, Pedro's body, Pedro's voice. The only difference was his eyes.

The loneliness akin to radiation, seeping from his very being. Depression boring into his skull. Trauma and anxiety eating away at him, like bugs. It was real. It was all real. He didn't know _how, _but they didn't know how most of the universe worked, either.

Or, universes. Plural. Realities. Dimensions. Hopping from one to the other. Something previously unthinkable, deemed impassable, absolutely absurd. And the Mandalorian did it by _accident._

The Mandalorian. In the flesh. Standing before him, glaring out the window as though the world had deliberately offended him. And, really, it probably had.

He was there. He was a physical being. A person.

Jon would spend month after month writing this man, figuring his mannerisms, wondering to himself, how would he behave? What would he say? Is he a man of many words, or does he only speak when spoken to?

And now, all that had once been on paper now presented itself in front of him.

It was the first time he actually thought about it, since it began almost two months ago. It didn't register. He had still been wary, paranoid of a scam. Having to resist calling the police for Pedro. Being scared that, one day, Pedro wouldn't arrive at the set at all.

And then, it happened. As soon as he got the text... he knew something was off. A violent chill travelled down his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

So he drove to the apartment. He knocked on the door once.

Twice.

Three times.

By the fourth, he was panicking. He banged on the door, not caring how much it hurt his fist. _"Pedro!" _he hollered. Desperate for _something. _A sign that his friend was okay.

The door swung open.

_"Pedro,"_ he breathed. But then he realised, something was _wrong._

This man was wide-eyed. He was afraid. His eyes darted across Jon like he couldn't believe he was really standing there. He was breathing harshly like he'd just been running, and his hair was plastered to his forehead.

And his hands were stained red.

_"You have to help me,"_ Din had gasped. _"I don't know where he is. I don't know where they've taken him."_

Every instinct in Jon's body was _screaming. _His brain hollered danger and his heartbeat like a drum in his ears.

Instead, he grabbed Din by the shoulder. He was shaking. _"What happened?"_ he whispered, as though he were afraid someone was listening.

But Din didn't answer. His eyes darted to the phone in Jon's hand, and in one swift movement, he snatched it from his grasp.

_"My phone is dead. Please tell me you have his contact."_

_"I- yes, yes."_

_"Password."_

_"Nineteen sixty-six."_

Din navigated through his phone like the flash, pulling up Pedro's contact in a matter of seconds.

_"He has location services turned on,"_ Din clarified at Jon's confusion.

Din shoved Jon's phone back into his hands, then turned on his heel, marching to the spare bedroom. The door slammed shut behind him as he went in, and Jon stood in shock as he waited. The first thing he noticed was the lack of power. Then, he noticed the blood. A pool of it. Handprints outlined in crimson red. Bile rose to the back of Jon's throat.

Barely two minutes later, Din emerged again, but this time, in full beskar armour. _"Show me the phone again."_

He showed Din, and he grunted.

_"You will drive me there," Din commanded. "When we arrive, you call his phone."_

_"What's the plan-?"_

But Din had already gone out the door, in a dramatic blur of silver motion.

And it had been fine. Pedro was safe. He was rescued. Like a scene from a TV show, as ironic as it was. Now all he had to do was recover.

Din assured him the wound was adequately treated. And Jon had every reason to believe him - but, he couldn't help but feel so shaken. 

Din had cleaned up the blood, but even so, every time Jon so much as glanced at that section of the floor he felt sick to his stomach.

A wave of dizziness and nausea rushed over him. He shut his eyes as tight as they could go, trying to block out the horrid flashes of crimson.

It dawned on him just how painfully real everything was. There was no scam. There were no delusions.

Just reality, and the cruel game it plays.

And one of the worst things?

Din hated him. He made no effort to hide it; he sighed and he muttered under his breath. He shot burning glares, he crossed his arms, every glance was an insult.

A character that Jon had spent so long on. Someone special.

And they hated him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discord server! https://discord.gg/WwJhAPh


	16. Look at me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I've placed an * in bold before and after a potentially upsetting scene. It was only experimental. Let me be very clear: you do not have to read it. It was for experimental purposes only.**
> 
> **Pedro is a real person. We should treat him as such. RPF has its boundaries and the scene below was most certainly pushing them. **

Another week passed.

Jon would visit every day, for which Pedro was grateful. Everything was fine - Pedro's arm was healing, and though it still hurt like hell, it would recover eventually. He slept fine enough.

The issue lay with the Mandalorian. Every time Jon walked through the doorway, Din would make a brilliant display of being incredibly annoyed. And he would do so until Jon left.

It wasn't a huge issue, until one day, where Jon didn't visit at all. Instead, Pedro received a text on his new phone.

_I'm sorry I didn't come over today. I don't want to make Din uncomfortable, so I thought it would be best I stay away for now._

And it sucked. It fucking sucked. Jon was being driven away because Din couldn't control his damn anger.

And, sure, _fine, _he had every right to be angry. But not even bothering to hide it? Being perfectly capable of staying in his room until Jon left but _purposefully deciding not to?_

"Din."

"Mm."

The Mandalorian didn't look up from his notepad. His phone was sat to the left of him, and every now and then he would glance up at it to read, then take some more notes.

Pedro was glad to see him taking the time to learn about Earth - but they needed to talk.

"Jon texted me."

Din didn't respond. He only scratched another few words into the paper.

"He said that he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable, so he won't be visiting anymore."

"Good for him."

Pedro clenched his jaw. "_Din._"

"Mm."

Pedro took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He shoved his hands into his pockets and rolled his neck, hearing it crackle from the tension.

"You're driving him away," he said, taking a step closer to where Din sat. "On purpose."

Still, the Mandalorian did not look up. Pedro crossed his arms over his chest, clenching his fists into tight balls.

"Look at me," Pedro said softly. "I need to talk to you."

Din stopped writing, for a moment, but then the moment passed, and he continued to take his notes.

The room suddenly felt very hot. Pedro uncrossed his arms, letting them fall to his side. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to focus on the outside sounds of cars driving by.

When he opened them again, Din was still writing.

"Look at me," he said again, but this time his voice was firm. He took another step forward. But still, Din refused to even so much as spare a glance.

The feeling began in his chest, then began to spread upward through his neck and his jaw, up to his forehead and seeping into his brain. Pedro felt his eyes widen and his face flush a violent scarlet. His heartbeat grew faster with each passing moment that Din's pen hit the paper. The soft scratching became louder, invading Pedro's hearing, and it was all he could focus on.

He lunged forward without warning. In one swift movement, he snatched the pen out of Din's hand, leaving the Mandalorian to glare up at him through the visor.

"You," Pedro's chest heaved, "will _not _ignore me." He pointed an accusing finger, straight at Din's head. "You will not ignore me."

Din's movements were slow. He shifted in his chair, bringing both legs to the side so that his entire torso was facing Pedro. Then he placed one arm on the table, and the other on the top rail of the chair.

*****

"_Give me back my pen_."

Pedro took two steps backwards, clutching the pen tight in his hand. He knew - he _knew _he'd overstepped his boundaries. But there was no turning back now.

"No," he said, as he took another step backwards. Din stood from his chair, and suddenly Pedro felt very, very afraid. He took another step.

"Give me my pen."

"I'm not giving it back."

"_Give it to me._"

Pedro clutched the pen so tight he thought he might break it. Din's voice, even with the modulation, sent a chill down Pedro's spine. It was a low growl, like a hound, hunting prey. Pedro never even heard _himself _speak this way. He had no idea he even could.

Something was wrong. And it went far beyond just annoyance. This was anger. A swelling rage. Genuine, and something to be feared.

With each step Din took, Pedro took another step back. He found himself backed up against the wall, pressing against it, willing himself to somehow float through it like a ghost.

"Din," he breathed.

The Mandalorian didn't stop walking. Before Pedro could even think he was barely an inch from his face. Even at the same height Pedro felt dwarfed. Din towered over him, menacing, threatening.

"Give me back the pen."

It was soft. Barely even audible, and if the situation was any different, it might've been calming. But it only made Pedro more afraid.

For the first time, he felt that- that Din might actually harm him. That maybe he should've heeded Jon's warnings. That maybe he should never have allowed Din to live with him, and just gotten on with his stupid life.

He was backed into a corner. His heartbeat played loud in his ears, blocking out any other sounds. It was like drumming leading to a crescendo.

"Din," he pleaded. "Din, please."

And then, he stopped. Din froze like a deer in headlights. In that moment, it was only the two of them, staring at each other with a mix of fear and anger.

Pedro saw his chance, and he took it. He sprinted off of the wall, narrowly avoiding Din's instinctual grab, and flung himself around the corner. He swung his door open, jumping inside, then slammed it behind him. He locked it with a soft click just as Din pounded on the door.

"Pedro!" yelled the Mandalorian. "_Pedro!_"

He fell onto his bed, pen still grasped in his hand. Shaking, he buried himself under the heavy covers, snatching a pillow to hold close to his chest. He used it in an attempt to muffle his ragged breathing.

"Pedro!"

Din continued to pound on the door.

Each bang has Pedro shutting his eyes tighter and tighter until they couldn't go any farther. He shivered, covered in a fearful sweat.

_Bang._

"Pedro! Open the door!"

The ringing in his ears, the sudden burst of pain, falling to the ground with a scream. The entire scene played through his head every time the door shook with each slam of the Mandalorian's fists.

_Bang._

"Open the door!"

_Bang._

Pedro hugged the pillow closer to his body. He tucked his legs up to his chest. The covers draped over him were suffocating, but he felt too afraid to leave them. Like a child who believes there's a monster in the closet. If he hid, if he just hid, then it would go away.

_Bang._

Then, there was the sound of something terrible. It was a scream, an awful heart-breaking scream. Resonating through the house, bouncing off the walls.

The banging stopped. There was only silence. It was only when Pedro removed his hands from his ears did he realise that he had been the one that was screaming.

"Pedro?"

It was quiet, like a mouse, but in the suffocating silence, no one could miss it.

The door handle shook for a moment. A last-ditch effort to get the door to budge. Then, a small thump, and the sound of someone sliding down the wall.

Pedro lifted the covers, letting the light blind him for a moment, feeling the fresh air rush in. He was shaking as he meandered himself off of the bed, and he was still shaking when he got to the door. The pen lay forgotten amongst the mess of the bed.

There was a quiet prolonged whine. Then another one, slightly louder than the last. And finally, a broken sob.

"I'm sorry," Din choked. "I'm so sorry."

Pedro rested his head against the door.

"You're the last person I want to hurt. I'm so sorry."

Pedro reached for the door's lock. He rested his hand on it for a moment, debating whether or not he should open the door at all, even just a little.

He was still shaking, and though the initial panic had subsided, he was still in a state of shock that he _needed _to get through before anything else.

Truthfully, he... he could barely even wrap his head around what had even occurred. It was almost like he blacked out. Despite only just occurring mere seconds ago, the details were fuzzy. All he could recall was fear, and... the screaming.

God, that had been his scream. Why did he scream?

There was banging. Like cracks of thunder one after the other. Din pounding on his door, yelling to be let in. And then ringing in Pedro's ears, and it reminded him of...

The bullet. The pain exploding from his shoulder. Blood staining his floors, going into shock. How long had he been lying there? At the time, it felt like seconds. But the more he thought about it... the more plausible it was that he could've been there for at least a half-hour. How else would he have lost so much blood?

But then... _where was Din during that time?_

He remembered the world spinning around him as he fell into a darkness that smothered him from all angles. It felt like being pulled in by a black hole. Stretched and thinned like butter. And the sensation of falling, forever, in a void doomed to drown him.

"Din?"

He winced at how coarse his voice sounded. It hurt his throat.

"Pedro?"

"I'm sorry for taking your pen."

Din made a noise that could be mistaken for a huff of laughter but was probably more of a scoff. "You don't need to apologise for anything. I nearly attacked you. For something as small as a fucking pen."

"Din, I-"

*****

The doorbell rang.

He sighed.

With a soft click, he pushed unlocked the door and pushed it open. Din sat against the wall beside it, helmet discarded. Pedro tried to ignore the redness around his eyes.

"It's not gonna be Jon so you should hide out in your room."

Din scrambled to his feet, picking up his helmet on the way. "I'll keep an ear out."

Pedro gave him a soft smile. "Thanks. I'll yell."

He walked to face the door just as Din disappeared into his room. Pedro paused at the entrance, his hand hovering over the knob.

He'd no idea who it could be. It definitely wasn't Jon, that much was certain. He didn't think it could be any of the other directors, either, since usually, they told him when they were paying a visit. His brother was in Chilé, and any other friends such as Boyd were busy. It was highly likely it could be his double - his _actual _one - since Pedro had been absent for more than a week, now, and they were probably behind on schedule...

It could be anyone from the show, really. Anyone who wasn't busy shooting.

So, with his jaw clenched and his legs standing in such a way that made it easier for him to run, he pushed open the door.

"Oh!" Julia exclaimed. Pedro's mouth fell open. "I thought you might be asleep... you look well!"

"...Julia! _Why are you here?_" Pedro put on the best smile his panicked-self could muster. All he could think about was making sure Din didn't find out she was here.

"Well, I-I heard what happened, and... I just had to make sure you were okay. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner but I've been busy and haven't been able to catch a break, and-"

"_It's okay! It's fine, really!"_

It's not like he didn't want to see her. He was glad for another familiar face. But Din would freak the fuck out if he saw her and that's _not _what he needed - _especially _after what had just occurred.

"Are you alright? You look pale. Have you been sleeping okay? Taking care of yourself?"

"..._I've been fine! Recovering!"_

"Your voice has gone up at least five octaves since you opened the door. Please tell the truth, Pedro, I want to help."

_Shit._

He cleared his throat. "I'm- I'm fine. Just surprised to see you. The only face I've seen for the past week as been Jon, haha."

Haha.

She chuckled. "Well, I'm glad you're okay. Can I-?" She gestured to the indoors.

_Just say no. It's for the best_. "Sure, yeah." He stepped aside so that she could squeeze in.

"Cold today," she sighed. "It's warm in here, though."

"Yeah. Thank god for heating."

Julia hummed as she sat down on the couch. "Your shoulder will be okay, right? You'll still be able to use it?"

"Well-" _Din said that I might have psychosomatic pain for the rest of my life, _"It should be fine. I just have to rest."

The guest bedroom's door creaked. Pedro spared a frantic glance over at it to see Din's face barely peeking through the crack. _Shit._

"It must've been horrifying. Do you know why they shot you?"

Pedro bit his lip. "Nope," he croaked. He tried to blink away the distinct image in his head. "I, um... I walked in on a fight when I was out for a walk. I guess I just got caught in the crossfire." Staring into the barrel, losing all sense of reality.

"I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what it must've been like... you'll be okay, right? Mentally, I mean."

Really, he was... fine. He was fine. Loud noises startled him, sure, and even thinking about it had his thoughts racing - but it's not like he was having nightmares. He could block it all out if he tried. He could pull himself back to reality.

He was fine. He would continue to be fine. It was just another obstacle of life that he had to overcome.

"Yes, I'm fine."

And yet, somehow, saying it felt like a bold-faced lie. He wondered if this was how Din felt on a regular basis.

Suddenly, Din's door squeaked open. Pedro shot a desperate look, only to discover he'd dressed into the Temporary-Non-Suspicious-Disguise.

"Oh, hello!" Julia smiled. "I didn't know you were here."

"He's staying... with me, for a little while, because," Pedro stumbled over his words for a second, "because he's having financial difficulties."

"I hope you manage to solve the issue soon - I don't believe I caught your name?"

Din visibly swallowed. "Donovan."

"Pleasure to meet you again. I hope you're okay."

_Right. _Last time they met Din had a panic attack. _Because _of her. He could only pray to whatever god might answer that it wouldn't happen again.

" 'M fine," Din croaked. "...Sick."

"Still? It must be an awful bug. You should drink plenty of water, and get plenty of rest."

Din only nodded. His hands were wrung in front of him - much like how Pedro liked to stand, funnily enough - and he was sort of swaying back and forth on his feet. Like an awkward teenager at a dance.

"Well," Julia sighed, "as much as I hate to say it, I have to get going. I'm sure Jon will throw a fit if I'm gone too long."

Pedro chuckled awkwardly. "Is it that bad?"

"He's just stressed. I'm sure he'll be okay."

Julia stood from the couch, stretched, then sighed once more. "Happy to see you're okay, Pedro. Been missing you on set, so heal quickly, yeah?" she chuckled.

"I dunno, I might drop dead."

"Oh, please don't!"

She laughed as she reached for the doorknob. As lovely as Julia was, Pedro was glad to see her leaving, mostly because he feared if she'd stayed a moment longer Din would have been swallowed by the ground. He _was _sad he couldn't talk to her longer, especially considering he'd been absent for so long, but... it was for the best.

The door closed softly behind her. Pedro watched through the window as she gracefully got into her car and drove away. When he moved to turn around, Din had collapsed onto the couch.

"...You good?"

"Ugh."

Pedro suddenly wished this side of Din had been portrayed more in the show. Especially regarding Omera. True, his face was always hidden, so it was difficult to show such a complex emotion as love. Pedro thought he'd done a decent job at the time... _But, _he supposed, _I guess I didn't understand the extent to which he actually likes her._

"Uuugh."

Pedro sighed for the umpteenth time. It seemed there was a lot of sighing going about lately.

"You... know it's not Omera, right?"

Din looked up. His sunglasses had been discarded and so had the scarf. "I know. She just..."

"Looks like her."

"Yes."

Julia didn't _act _like Omera. She didn't dress like her. She wore her hair down, she curled it, she wore eyeliner and eyeshadow and blush and all that fancy stuff that Omera didn't have. But... yes, they had the same face. Din was in love with _Omera, _and as a result, developed a nasty crush on _Julia..._

Jesus. _What have I gotten myself into?_

He couldn't even begin to imagine what it would be like. Seeing all of these people, that you know, except... they're _not. _You don't know them, they're not your friends. Gina is not Cara. Carl is not Greef. And, Julia is _not _Omera.

"Is this the first person you've ever liked?" Pedro asked suddenly.

Din seemed to think for a moment. He didn't recoil at the question - which was good, because barely two months ago he would most certainly have - but instead sat back into the couch pensively.

"I... think so. Yes."

"That's rough."

Pedro sunk down into the couch. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease out any built-up tension received from the last five minutes.

"What about you?" Din asked.

"Hmm?"

"Do you like anyone?"

It... was a surprising question. Not something he expected to hear from the Mandalorian, of all people.

"No. No, not right now."

"_Have _you liked anyone?'

"Yeah. Loads of times."

Din hummed. "How do you know?"

Pedro fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "What do you mean?"

"How do you know if you're in love?"

Right. He'd almost forgotten. Din was an emotionally repressed middle-aged teenager. "I dunno. Hard to describe? You feel like you're floating on clouds when you're around them. They make you happy, and you'd do anything for them, to make sure that they're safe."

"I would do anything for _ad'ika_."

...Pedro wasn't even sure if Din had intended to say it out loud. It seemed he hadn't, because almost immediately after the words left his mouth, he recoiled.

"It's okay to say that, you know. That you love him. He's your son."

At Din's expression, Pedro continued, "I know you're incredibly emotionally repressed and you're discovering emotions for the first time ever, but- he's your son. You're allowed to care about him and nurture him."

"I know."

"Good."

"It's just weird hearing someone else say it."

"Well, _technically..._"

"You know what I mean," Din huffed. "The Mandalorians..."

He was silent, for a moment. Unlike previous silences, though, it was comfortable. Not strange, not alien. And for a moment, Din looked like he completely belonged.

"My _buir _was distant. Kind, yes, and he treated me as his own, as that is what we are taught. But I never saw him as a father, and I don't believe he saw me as his son. After..." he hesitated, "after everything that happened, I cut myself off completely. From feeling. So I wouldn't have to experience such a loss again." Din chuckled. "Look how that turned out."

Pedro stared up at the ceiling, resting the back of his head against the couch.

"You've been repressing your feelings since you were a child, and the only reason you were able to do that is because you always had distractions. Now that you're holed up here, you have nothing to do, except... _think_."

"That could be a viable explanation."

"Mm."

He turned his head to the side so that he was gazing at Din. The Mandalorian himself was staring at the wall opposite, but it was calm. Undisturbed. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Pedro wondered what was going through his head.

"What if you get a job?"

Almost immediately, Din whipped his gaze back to Pedro, eyebrows raised. "I... don't believe I possess any skills that would be deemed useful on this planet."

"I'm sure there's something. A... café?"

"My mental stability is not suited for retail."

"Maybe a bouncer."

"I would just end up killing someone."

"There's... a bail bondsman...?" Pedro immediately shook his head. "No. Bad idea. Terrible."

"How so?"

"Bail bondsmen are bounty hunters."

Din's eyes lit up.

"But!" Pedro quickly continued, "It's illegal in most places, or really looked-down upon, and really restricted. And you have my face. It's not a good idea."

"Mmgh."

"Sorry."

Pedro suddenly felt his eyes getting droopy. He yawned, feeling his jaw stretch from the tension. "If I fall asleep, please wake me up in like, ten minutes."

But there was no response from the Mandalorian. When he turned to look, to make sure everything was okay, Din was already fast asleep.

_Well. _Pedro thought. _I guess we both need more rest._

_Maybe I'll rest my eyes for a moment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, yes. That is that. I've been nervous about posting this chapter, but it's here now, so I hope you liked it. If not, that's okay too.
> 
> When I wrote this chapter, it was really only to see how far I could push the angst before it was off-putting. 
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	17. You know, I have a dog.

_17/2/2020_

_I cannot put into words the amount of shame I feel. Pedro, I'm sorry. You don't deserve this burden I've placed upon you. I have brought you and your life nothing but pain._

_I rely on you. I lean on you when my legs are too weak to stand. It's not okay, and I'm sorry._

_I came to this world with nothing and expected everything. It has been nearly two months of security and safety and, yet, I still am not satisfied. It is unlike me to grasp at what I don't have when I know I don't deserve it._

_I will earn your trust. I won't lash out. It won't be easy, but I'll do it._

_I'm sorry for driving Jon away. I'm sorry for being sour. I'm sorry for ignoring you and refusing to talk. I'm sorry for the burden you must endure to ensure my health and well-being._

_I'm sorry that I don't know how to articulate this to you, in person. The written word has always come easier to me. I've never dealt with so many feelings at once. Every time you say I am "emotionally repressed" I can't help but feel that it's the truth. I shoved all emotions away for thirty years. If I didn't, I would never have made a decent Mandalorian._

_They don't teach us about feelings. They teach you to fight, and to love children, they teach the language, they teach you The Way and how you must follow it._

_But they are all distant. We do not talk, except to train. Bonds are created in fighting. We would wake up early in the day and we would spar and at the end of the day, we sleep._

_Nothing of feelings. They give us our armour and send us on our way. At least, that was my Tribe. I'm unsure of any others._

_I'm sorry that I never had the sense to learn about emotions. I'm sorry that I rely on you to identify them for me._

_I want to spend time with you. Not just in passing, not just at meals - I want to get to know you and I want you to help me understand myself._

_Everything was taken from me from the moment I found myself here. You are all I have. But... I will understand if you choose to let me go, and have me find my own way. I will not complain or beg. If you would have me gone, then I will leave._

_If you choose to allow me to stay, however, I only ask that you give me time and that you are patient._

_I ask that you please do not stress over me. You have your life, and it should not be disrupted by mine. I will not complain._

_If it's alright... I would like to meet the actress who plays Cara. Perhaps not soon, but sometime, in the future, I would like it._

_I will attempt to rid my feelings for Omera. Or more specifically, in this case, Julia. I don't want your conversations with her to be hindered by me._

_And should it be possible, I'd like to come to the set once more. I want to see the process behind everything, and I believe it would be fascinating to see you act. I understand how this could be difficult, however, because you would be showing me parts of my life that I'm yet to actually live._

_At this point, though, I don't really care._

_I don't think I'll be going back anytime soon._

_If ever._

_Before this gets too lengthy, I'd just like to say..._

_I do not expect forgiveness. For not only making my burdens your own but also for making you feel unsafe._

_I'm sorry._  
  
  


The note mocked him. Stared at him right through the visor. It was heavy in his palm. Everything about it, from the formality to the handwriting, made Din want to scream. He'd folded it in so many different directions that it was made up of nothing but verticle and horizontal creases.

It had been another week. Pedro was out, working, having made almost a full recovery. Din had plenty of time to write the note. To plan it, lay it out, tear it from the notepad as carefully as he possibly could manage.

He'd no clue where to put it. On the fridge? On the bench? Or should he just _give _it to Pedro when he returned, and awkwardly watch him read it the whole time? Or he could shove it in Pedro's hands and immediately retreat, giving no context whatsoever.

He could put it on Pedro's pillow, or under it, or in it, or slip it into his pocket during dinner. He could roll it up and tie it with a string and hang it around the bedroom door.

_Or, _he thought, with an exasperated sigh, _I'll just not do any of that._

But he needed to. He _needed _to. There's no way he could possibly say any of it out loud. He just... he couldn't.

When he tried, it's like his entire mind was screaming. He couldn't concentrate, he stumbled over his words, nothing made sense to him and it certainly didn't make sense to anyone else, but- but when he wrote it down, he could actually say what he meant to, and if he made a mistake, he could just... start over. And that would be perfectly fine.

Pedro always said that Din could talk to him about anything, anything at all - but that was the problem. He physically _couldn't._

Even if he wanted to.

"Din?"

Alarm bells sounded off in his head. He hadn't even noticed Pedro come in through the door! How had he not noticed? How the fuck had he not noticed when he spent_ thirty years training to notice things?_

Was he that fucking out of it? Is that what his life had come to?

"Pedro," he breathed. "Hi."

"You doing okay? I called your name three times."

"...I'm fine. Staring into space."

Pedro hummed suspiciously. "What's that piece of paper?"

Din folded it over. "It's. Some notes." He was suddenly very grateful for his helmet, and how it hid his expression.

"What'r you researching this time?"

He blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Dogs."

"Dogs."

"I wanted to see if they were different from the ones in my dimension."

It was a bold-faced lie. He knew it, Pedro knew it, every universe and its cousins knew it. But at least Pedro seemed to catch on that Din didn't actually want to talk about it.

"Okay. Well, I spoke to Jon today, about finding you someplace to work..." Pedro dumped three bags of groceries onto the counter. "And we came up with absolutely nothing, _but, _he did say he could try and pull some strings, see if there's anywhere that'll let you wear a mask. You know..."

Pedro leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. The moonlight shining through the window and reflecting on his skin made him look almost ethereal. "I have a dog."

"...You do?"

"Yeah. He's being babysat at the moment since I'm busy with the show... he also lives at my other house, so."

"Your _other _house?"

Pedro hummed. "I have this apartment, which is temporary, but it's closer to the studio, and then I have my house in this city and the house in New York."

"Why do you have so many houses?"

"I go from place to place."

Din fiddled with the note in his hand as Pedro unloaded groceries. It felt heavy. The paper was rough against his skin and felt as though it might scratch away at him, slowly, until he was nothing but a pile of bones.

_Always one for the dramatics, _he sighed to himself.

"Din? Din?"

"What?"

"I asked if you wanted to go shopping tomorrow."

Din blinked. Then blinked again. "Shop...ping?"

"For clothes. So you can find something you like. And maybe we can improve your Temporary-Non-Suspicious-Disguise, especially if we're actually going to that convention in a week."

Right, he'd almost forgotten about it. The convention. Trying to find a gateway back to his own dimension.

It all sounded so ridiculous. He wondered how ridiculous it must've sounded to _Pedro._

"Shopping sounds... nice. I suppose I'll have to wear the, uh..."

"The Temporary-Non-Suspicious-Disguise, yes."

"We're not calling it that."

"It's too late."

Din huffed. "What if it becomes permanent? Will it still be called the Temporary Disguise?"

"No, then it's just Non-Suspicious."

"But it's incredibly suspicious."

"Yes, that's why it's funny."

But their conversation was cut off by someone pounding at the front door.

He immediately found himself at Pedro's side. The actor had turned as white as paper. His jaw was clenched. His fists were clenched into tight balls.

Aggressive. With purpose. _Familiar._

They somehow knew. Like some sort of sixth-sense, hairs on the back of their necks standing on end.

"They've come back," Din whispered. _Be quiet. Don't move._

"I fucking noticed," Pedro hissed in return.

"Be still."

They held their breaths. Whoever was at the door pounded once more. Then, there were voices. Barely audible.

_"...not home."_

_"They must... the car..."_

"Please tell me you have your phone with you," Pedro whispered.

"It's in my pocket," Din replied. "Should I call the police?"

Pedro shook his head. "They'll stop it. Call Jon."

The floorboard creaked obnoxiously as Din shifted to grab for his phone. He halted, phone halfway out of his pocket.

_"...heard something..."_

_"They're inside."_

Din grabbed Pedro's arm. The man was shaking. His shoulder appeared to twitch.

"Pedro," he hissed, "You have to hide."

But the man was frozen to his spot. His eyes darted across the front door.

"Pedro. _Pedro._"

There was the distinct sound of someone picking the lock.

"_Pedro!_"

He blinked. Then released a shaky breath. He had been holding it the entire time.

"The closet," Pedro whispered. Din needed nothing else.

With a firm grip on Pedro's arm, Din tugged him to the main bedroom. He moved swiftly and quietly, even with Pedro trudging behind, almost completely out of it.

He shoved Pedro into the closet, then shut the door with a bang.

"Stay in here. Don't make a sound."

Din inhaled, then exhaled slowly through his mouth.

"You'll be safe," he breathed.

With something akin to a bounce in his step, Din ran into his own room, where his armour lay in a neat heap at the base of his bed. He kept it there at all times - polished and ready, in case of emergencies.

He couldn't protect Pedro last time. He hadn't been prepared, he was sloppy, and as a result, his only friend got shot.

_This time, _he thought as he slipped on the beskar, _I'll do whatever I have to to ensure his safety._

Since arriving on Earth, he'd only fired his blaster a grand total of once. He'd be lying if he said it didn't feel somewhat good to hear the click of his gun as he cocked it.

The pulsar rifle hadn't come with him in the hop, so his blaster was all he had. He'd be dammed if he didn't make the most of it... even with the supremely limited ammo.

He heard the front door slam open just as he strapped on the last piece of armour. _For people who are trying to kidnap me... they're not even remotely stealthy._

He scoffed. _Or intelligent._

With his blaster held firmly at his side, he stepped out into the hall. He pressed his back against the wall, side-stepping his way out into the living room.

There were two of them. The girl had her back turned, peeking through the curtains for anyone who might be watching. The male - who Din only just came to realise was _incredibly _tall - was standing by her side.

She sighed. "What if they made a run for it?"

"Where would they even _go_? Have you seen the size of this place? This is the only window in the entire-"

"I wonder," Din interrupted casually.

The two immediately whipped around, and in only seconds, their guns were pointed directly at his head.

"Go ahead," Din shrugged. "If plasma can't get through this metal, then your bullets won't either."

"Mandalorian," said the female. She appeared confident, but her stance wobbled, and her hand had a tremor. "You will come with us."

Din pushed himself off the wall. He took a few steps and relished in the fear presented on the intruder's faces.

"Give me one reason."

The male's eyes darted to the blaster in his right hand. Slowly, the man lowered his weapon, before dropping it to the floor.

"_Christopher,_" the girl hissed. "What are you doing?"

The male - Christopher - ignored her. His eyes remained trained on Din and slowly raised his hands up into the air.

"You want to go home, yeah?" Christopher said.

Din cocked his head to the side. His right hand rested on his holster, ready to draw his blaster and shoot at any given moment.

"We're not from this dimension either. We're working on a way of getting home," Christopher continued. "Someone else came through, as well. Someone you've met."

If he fired his blaster it would attract attention. The same went for _them. _They couldn't get away with another gunshot, not again. They stopped the police last time, but that wouldn't hold up for long.

Being curious couldn't hurt.

"Who?"

Out of his peripheral, he saw the girl lower her weapon, as well. Christopher let out a seemingly relieved sigh.

"Doctor Pershing."

Din inhaled sharply.

_The doctor. _The one who worked for the Imperials. The- the timid one, who exfoliated anxiety. He distinctly remembered the terrified expression on the doctor's face, the frightened eyes behind those glasses, as he threw himself in front of the child, pleading, _"please don't hurt him, he's just a child."_

They'd barely spoken a word to each other, and on both occasions of their meeting, Din shoved a gun in his face.

He was an _Imp. _But...

What else did he have? What other hope?

"Where is he?"

Christopher was fully relaxed now. He stood casually. Din would be able to push him over with his pinky. This made his job easier.

"He's at our establishment. The one you 'saved' your doppelganger from - we were going to give him back, by the way. If you come with us, we can take you-"

Din lunged at him, pushing him to the ground. He brought his foot back, and before the man could yelp, slammed his heel into the back of his head. He lay, unconscious, sprawled on the floor.

The female jumped at him, shouting something in a harsh foreign language. Din grabbed her arm. He twisted it and she fell to the ground with a thump.

She scrambled for her gun. Din kicked it away and it slid towards the wall.

Now she stared up at him, one sprained arm resting at her side. Her eyes were wide and afraid, and he was instantly reminded of Pedro's haunted expression. The face he'd make at every small sound, every time someone came to the door. How his shoulder would subconsciously twitch. Paranoia taking over his senses and being frozen to the spot.

"No one," he hissed, "gets away with hurting the people I care about."

He got down on one knee so that he hovered menacingly over her. His shadow cast over her figure.

"I just," she croaked, "I just wanted to go home. With my husband. I just-"

"Should have thought about that before you shot my friend."

He slammed the side of his blaster into her head. She fell unconscious, her head lulled to one side, mouth open as the result of a yell that she hadn't had time to fulfil.

If he were in his own dimension they would've already been dead. Shot in the head, or the torso. Din couldn't even recall the last time he only rendered someone unconscious. Sure, there had been occasions where he needed to knock out a bounty so they'd get into the carbonite freezer, but they were destined for a worse fate anyway. This was _different._

He could've killed them. Easily. Their guns wouldn't have stood a chance against his beskar, and his blaster could burn through any bulletproof vests they had.

And it wasn't only because he didn't want to attract attention. Dealing with that wouldn't have been a problem.

Perhaps it was something at the back of his brain. 

That's what Pedro would say. He would tell him that maybe he was feeling guilty, and that being away from all the violence has undone his desensitisation to it.

Which didn't bode well, really, because... he was a fucking bounty hunter, for maker's sake.

"Are they...?"

The sudden voice made him jump. It being his, for starters: he'd almost forgotten Pedro existed. Almost forgot about his situation.

"They're just unconscious," Din clarified. With a knot in his throat, he got up from his kneeling position. "They'll have a concussion."

"I hope that's the extent of it..." Pedro's voice wavered as he spoke. He stood awkwardly, arms crossed over each other, almost like he was hugging himself for comfort. He probably was.

"They should be fine. Give them a week," Din sighed. "I... I got some information."

Pedro seemed to stare into space for a moment. Then he blinked, shook his head, and took a deep breath. "Yeah?"

For a moment, Din debated not telling him. He didn't want to cause more stress, and he'd be damned if he actually wanted to go meet with the doctor - but what were his options, in the grand scheme of things?

"Someone else from my dimension is here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you couldn't tell that was my first time writing an action scene lmao. i still have a ways to go. don't bully me pls
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/QxdaPYsMVn)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	18. Eh? Perdón?

18th Feb 2020

They were in the car.

Pedro was driving. Every now and then he would push his glasses back up his nose, but that was the absolute extent of his movement besides the turning of the wheel.

Din sat in silence in the passenger seat. The scarf was itchy, and the beanie was hot, and the sound of passing traffic was going to drive him insane.

But it was important he sit through the ride, and without complaint. Pedro was stressed enough as it was. He didn't need Din's input.

After the events of the previous day... they both decided it might be best to leave the apartment. People knew where he was, so he needed to go somewhere else - and _stay _there until further notice.

They left the apartment at night. Jon had already taken the intruders to a hospital. All they had to do was pack, then leave.

Din didn't know how long they'd been driving for, but the moon was still in the sky. It couldn't have been long, but still felt like hours. Pedro's car, as nice as it was, was not spacious. It was claustrophobic, but neither of them wanted to risk rolling down the windows.

So they sat in the stuffy uncomfortable silence.

While Din was grateful for the change in scenery and living somewhere larger than a small apartment, Pedro appeared to be... less than pleased about it. Even though it was his idea in the first place.

Nothing about it was ideal. They'd be further from the set, so Pedro would have to leave earlier in the morning so he could get to work on time. And then he'd arrive back later, as well, as if he didn't already come back late enough. Schedules would be adjusted. The only semblance of sanity in their lives would be disrupted.

And on top of that, Din had still not given Pedro the note. After everything... it felt like the wrong time. And sure, maybe it was just a goddamn excuse to delay the inevitable. But... he just didn't want Pedro to be any more upset than he already was.

He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were turned white. Pedro was an actor, so he could hide any emotions racing through him at any given moment, but they shared a _face, _Din could tell when something was wrong. And something was definitely wrong. Or at least... off.

At least there were distractions. That being... well, the outside world, he supposed. Seeing parts of Los Angeles he hadn't seen before. People walking around, with their strange choices in clothing - honestly, weren't they _cold?_

"We'll be there in a minute."

The sudden voice made Din jump. Pedro hadn't so much as sighed since they packed, and his voice sounded croaky and harsh.

Din wanted to respond, he wanted to say something that might help, even if it was just to relieve the tension built up in the car. But he wasn't good with words. That was always Cara, or Kuiil... when he was alive.

Instead, he hummed in acknowledgment, then stared out the window.

The city was pretty at night. It was nothing compared to a place like Coruscant, but it was nice. Comfortable, even. Then again, any place that didn't send hunters at your ass would be comfortable.

_And yet, _he thought bitterly, _somehow, even in a different dimension, people are after me._

Stupid.

It was all stupid. Everything was stupid. From the moment he was engulfed in that bright orange light and found himself on Earth, everything had become stupid. Even his little semblance of self had become stupid. With emotions overrunning his brain and making him act irrationally.

Three decades after the death of his parents, he hadn't shed a single tear. But, oh, _sure, _bring on the goddamn waterworks now that _Pedro _was there. Bring on the panic attacks, the nightmares, the misery of life, as though he didn't already have enough on his plate.

_Bring on the existential crisis._

And then, because of it all, Pedro got shot.

He hid. When he heard that gunshot, he did.

_Why?_

He had no idea.

He remembered slumping on his bed as he waited for whoever was at the door to leave. Then the harsh, cold voice. A distant click.

_"I believe you already know what I'm here for," _is what the man had said.

And then there was a gunshot.

And yelling.

And for some unknown, ungodly reason -_ Din_ _hid._

Maybe it was the shock. Maybe he'd been caught off guard. That's what Din wanted to believe. He didn't know how much time had passed, only that, after some time... the apartment became deadly quiet.

And he was alone.

_Hut'uun._

He'd read the stories.

Of those that became _dar'manda. _Those who abandoned their heritage. And he was never afraid that he might become one. He could follow the rules. He wore the armour, he spoke the language, he provided for the clan. He protected his child and would eventually go on to raise him as a Mandalorian, too, if he'd been given the time.

But he couldn't protect Pedro. Some force within the confines of his mind stoppedhim.

And it was cowardice. It violated the resol'nare_ \- Jon had seen him without his fucking helmet, too - _he couldn't just pretend. That it was okay.

Sure, _fine_, he was in a new dimension. Maybe it didn't _count, _maybe an exception could be raised.

But as he stared at his reflection in the window, he knew he was too far gone.

Something in his brain screamed at him, yelled that he should feel afraid.

_Dar'manda is worse than death, di'kut._

Yet, strangely, he found he didn't mind.  
  
  


-  
  
  


By the time they arrived, Din was feeling drowsy. Really, all he wanted to do was sleep in the car, but Pedro opened his door so aggressively that Din thought it might not be a good idea to test the man's patience.

So he stumbled out. The air was biting cold, but refreshing after such a claustrophobic and tense ride.

"You go inside," Pedro mumbled as he unlocked the front door. "I'll bring everything in. Be careful with Edgar."

_Edgar?_

But it was too late. As soon as he stepped indoors, he was immediately jumped by a rodent-like creature - and it took him a moment to realise, this was Pedro's _dog._

Not at all what he'd been expecting. He thought perhaps it'd be bigger, and intimidating. But... no, it was yappy and small and rather undeniably adorable. _I should've figured, really._

Not too much later, Pedro came in through the door with the suitcases trailing behind him. Even though his expression was sour and tired, as soon as he saw Edgar his face lit up.

"Hola Edgar," he breathed. It was like all the sour grumpiness immediately washed away, and for a moment, the Pedro that Din met at the convention was back.

"Si, si, Edgar, lo sé," Pedro sighed. "¿Tienes hambre?"

Din only watched in bewilderment as Pedro abandoned the luggage by the door and trudged down the hall, Edgar following suit.

Really, he should've known that Pedro would speak another language. It just wasn't something he ever thought about.

"What language is that?" he asked as he followed Pedro into the kitchen.

"Hmm? Oh. Spanish. I'm from-"

"Chi-lee."

"You butchered the pronunciation, it's _Chilé, _but yes. How did you-?"

"I looked you up." Din shifted. "Sorry."

Pedro only hummed, focusing his attention back on the cupboard he'd opened. After a second of rummaging he pulled out a cardboard box, and Edgar barked excitedly.

"Si, si..."

He grabbed a metal bowl from a different cabinet and placed it on the floor. He waited for the dog to stop barking before beginning to pour the food.

Pedro stepped back so Edgar could eat. "He's probably eaten already but he hasn't seen me in ages, so. Midnight snack."

"Where's the one you hired to take care of him?"

Glancing around, it didn't seem like anyone was living in the home. It was almost spotless. If it weren't for the fact that the dishwasher was running on a low hum, he might've thought no one was ever there at all.

"Asleep. Probably. I hope we don't wake them up. I forgot to tell them I'd be coming back..." Pedro worried at his lip. "It was so last minute..."

The atmosphere suddenly became very awkward. The only sounds were the dishwasher and Edgar gnawing on his food.

"Pedro-"

"Din-"

They both spoke simultaneously. The two stared for a moment, each waiting for the other to speak. As Din's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw how tired Pedro actually looked.

"You... should rest," Din said. He clenched his fist around the note crumpled in his pocket. _It can wait._

"I think we both need rest," Pedro mumbled. His eyes were distant now. Back to how they were when they left. "You can choose whichever room you like, just try to be quiet. I'll bring your stuff up."

"You don't have to. I can-"

"Din."

Pedro stared at him with such vigour that Din had to take a moment to think.

"Don't overwork yourself," Din muttered. _I don't want you to suffer for my sake. No one should have to. My burdens should be mine alone._

The note in his pocket fell heavy. But he couldn't bring himself to fish it out.

"It's just some luggage," Pedro shrugged. He flashed a smile, but it was tired and didn't reach his eyes.

Din opened his mouth to speak, but after a moment, shut it again. _He wants to help, just let him._

"But- your shoulder."

Pedro's expression fell.

"It doesn't hurt," he said. He crossed his arms over his torso. "I've recovered." Even as he spoke, though, the shoulder twitched.

"No. You haven't."

Pedro's eyes furrowed, and he frowned. "What?"

"Listen to me, because I'm speaking from experience." Din took a moment to think and breathe. "You have not recovered. You won't ever recover. This will be permanently ingrained in your mind."

Slowly, very slowly, Pedro took a step forward. They were standing quite close, now, less than an arm's reach.

"You need to rest. It's late."

And that was that, it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	19. Sense of normality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dog-sitter isn't anyone in particular, imagine them however you like :)

18th Feb 2020

Din didn't sleep.

At all.

He'd be lying if he said he even tried.

Perhaps it was the change in scenery, or just the stress getting to him, but despite how exhausted he felt, he didn't sleep.

He scrolled through Wikipedia on his phone. Tried to find something he could spend the next few hours reading until it was time to get up for breakfast. Every time he checked the clock, another half-hour had passed, so he figured, he just needed to do that eight more times, and then he could drag himself out of bed.

It was four in the morning. He and Pedro ate breakfast at eight, and then Pedro would leave for work at eight-thirty. That had been the schedule for the past two months. Din wanted to believe that, maybe, the schedule wouldn't be disrupted because of the move, but... he could only hope, really.

The amount of time that he spent by himself, all alone, was astounding. Pedro was _always _at work, and the only times he was home were during mealtimes or over the weekend. And sometimes he even worked on weekends as well.

And then there were days where Din didn't see Pedro at all until the next morning. _"Jon needed me for something," _he would say. Or, _"Sorry I'm late, the traffic was shit."_

Din wouldn't mind at all if it wasn't so boring. And _lonely_.

He hoped that the new environment would at least provide some distraction - it was multiple stories high, for one thing. Din's room was on the second floor, and he had a decent view from the window, and the occasional pleasant breeze that made the curtains flutter.

The window, at least, was a nice change. The room he occupied in Pedro's apartment didn't have windows, so he always woke up to absolute darkness... which was a major problem when he wanted to wake up at a specific time. He didn't want another repeat of the day where he slept till 3pm. It felt like he'd entered an alternate reality. Which was... funny.

He knew that if he stayed up any later, he'd only pass out in the middle of the day. But he didn't _want _to sleep. Something was itching at the back of his mind, he just... needed to work up the courage to act on it.

The phone screen was the only thing illuminating the room. He scrolled through words he wasn't even sure he was processing correctly. Truthfully, he wasn't even sure what page he landed himself on. Something about a revolution? He had no idea.

Every so often, he would pause. Stop to think. He'd move his thumb to the search bar, but then retract it, sighing deeply to himself.

He _wanted _to. He wanted to know, _needed _to. But something in him pushed back. His intuition hated it, but also feared it was fighting a losing battle.

But it _clawed _at him, at his brain. It's not like he was going to sleep anyway, so what would he have to lose, really?

_His sanity, probably._

Another hour passed. It was five in the morning. A hint of sunlight was beginning to filter through the curtains. Din's eyes were droopy and he felt, frankly, quite dead. But he was determined to stay up. He didn't want to sleep. He _refused _to.

So, he relented. He tapped on the search bar and typed the only thing that he knew could wake him up.

_the child - the mandalorian._

He didn't even have time to regret his decision as the page loaded instantly; and if he had been standing, he would've fallen over. There were images of the child, _his child_, just sitting there. On the internet.

He tried to blink away the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. His heart ached, and his breath hitched.

There he was. As Din remembered him. Except, it was through the eyes of a camera lens. _A puppet. _He'd already seen it, on the show, when he watched it that night... but that felt real, at least. This... it only emphasised just how _fictional _the child was, and everything else was, too.

It _hurt_. _So much_. Just seeing him, and not being able to _be _with him. He longed to cradle him as he slept, to feed him, or to be physically capable of saying no to his child once more.

A broken yell escaped him as he flung his phone across the room. The image of his child trapped behind the phone screen still shone in the dark, mocking him. Din bit his hand to stop himself from audibly wailing.

He curled himself into a shaking ball, and that was how he remained.

-

Pedro awoke with a start at five in the morning. It took him only a moment to realise why.

He vaguely recalled the frustrated yell a few doors down, and the thump that accompanied it. He debated just staying in bed, ignoring it, going back to sleep. But if in some way Din was hurt, then that wasn't an option.

So, reluctantly, and sluggishly, Pedro pulled himself out of bed and dragged himself down the corridor.

His steps were slow and tired. By the time he approached Din's room he thought he might keel over. The air felt cold, _much too cold._

He grabbed at the doorknob and twisted it. He pushed the door open as silently as he could manage, peering into the room, trying to adjust his eyes.

On the floor was Din's phone. That must've been what caused the thump. The screen was still lit, displaying a google search that Pedro had hoped Din would never feel tempted to make. With a sigh and a groan, Pedro picked it up from the ground, turning it off, and placing it on the dresser.

On the bed was Din himself. He was curled into a ball, breathing deeply. As Pedro approached, he could see the wetness of tears staining his cheeks and soaking into his pillow.

He'd cried himself to sleep, then.

Slowly Pedro reached over, grabbing the blankets and pulling them over Din's shoulder. It was a cold night.

Satisfied that no one was injured, Pedro turned on his heel and exited the room, making his way slowly downstairs to the living room. At the bottom of the stairs was a dark silhouette. He squinted, trying to make sense of it, before the silhouette turned and Pedro could make out the face.

"Hey," he muttered tiredly. "Sorry that... that I didn't give any warning."

The figure shrugged. "It's fine. I just woke up. Everything okay?"

"Fine," Pedro sighed. "Edgar didn't cause any issues?"

"None at all," they said. "Will you be staying?"

"For the... for the foreseeable future. You can leave if you want."

They bit their lip, seemingly deliberating over the choice. "You sure that's okay?"

"Yeah," Pedro shrugged. "I can take care of things. Can I... um, can... can I pay you tomorrow?"

"...Are you alright?"

"Hm?"

Pedro swayed on the spot. The floor suddenly looked closer than it had previously been.

"You're standing weird. Do you feel-?"

"I'm... fine," he insisted. As he did, though, he stumbled forwards, only barely reaching the railing in time. He gasped as the entire world tilted, spun around him like a hurricane. He squeezed his eyes tight, the cold metal bar he was so desperately grasping onto being his only sense of where he was. "Fuck," he hissed. "_Fuck."_

"Pedro?"

He reached out his hand, shaking as he did so, seeking for some semblance of comfort. They grabbed his hand, and he squeezed it, not daring to open his eyes.

"You're fucking sizzling," they hissed. "Do you want me to call an ambulance?"

"No. No... no." His lips felt dry and cracked, and his throat was hoarse. It hurt to swallow.

"You need to lie down."

He didn't protest when they dragged him off from the stairs and down to the couch, keeping a strong grasp on him at all times. He allowed himself to be lowered onto the couch, chest heaving with exhaustion from the short trip alone.

"You're burning up..." they said. "I should take your temperature. I'll be right back, okay? I'm going to grab the thermometer."

He nodded reluctantly. He felt the absence immediately when their hand pulled away from his, but he fought the urge to grab it again.

Slowly, very slowly, the dizziness began to ebb away. By the time they returned with the thermometer he was able to open his eyes without feeling queasy.

He felt it being shoved into his ear, and he winced, but remained still. After a moment it beeped and they pulled it out.

"One-oh-three... are you sure you don't want an ambulance...?"

Pedro shook his head slightly, and was relieved to find that it didn't cause the world to spin again.

"I'll stay then, until your fever breaks. Do you want some water?"

"Yes," Pedro croaked. "Small glass."

They disappeared only to reappear with a large glass. They shot an apologetic smile, saying all the small glasses had been used.

"Can you sit up?" they asked.

Pedro grabbed at the edge of the couch and used it to hoist himself up. His world spun, and he shut his eyes till the feeling subsided and he could open them again.

"Here." They held the glass of water to his mouth. He reached up to grab it but they swatted his hand away. Pedro would've rolled his eyes if he were in any state to.

They took the glass away after he had taken a few sips, placing it on the coffee table.

"I'll get a wet rag for your forehead. Don't move."

_Wasn't planning on it._

They left, and for a while, Pedro was alone.

He shivered despite the heat crawling up his spine. His hair had begun to stick to his forehead, and his vision swayed every time he moved his head.

The room was dark, but as the sun began to peek through the windows, Pedro felt a headache forming in his forehead. Like something was living in his brain, trying to push its way out. An unending pressure that refused to let up even when he closed his eyes.

They returned soon enough, but without the wet rag.

"Hey... Pedro?"

He hummed, feeling too tired and drained to actually respond properly.

"There's someone outside. Pacing on the porch."

His eyes shot open.

At this point, he wasn't even surprised.

"What do they look like?" he groaned. The dizziness had mostly faded, but the light-headedness was still ever-present.

"They have a hat on. And like, three jackets. With the collar turned up. I think it's a guy."

That didn't _sound _like Christopher. The past few times Pedro had seen the blasted man, he was either wearing a suit or a short-sleeved grey shirt. And he was sure Ivana wouldn't be caught dead wearing something so bulky, either. Plus... they were supposed to be in the hospital recovering from the concussion Din blessed them with.

"Should I call the police?" they asked.

_Yes, _said the logical part of Pedro's brain. What he said instead was, "No."

"Someone you know?"

He sighed. "Possibly. Help me up."

They grabbed at his outstretched hand and lifted him up from the couch. He swayed on the spot for a few moments before recovering and straightening his posture. It seemed the small amount of water had already helped a great deal.

"You should go home," Pedro muttered as he made his way slowly towards the door. "I feel better now."

"Are you sure?"

"I've dealt with fevers before. I'm fine."

They stopped in front of the door. Sure enough, Pedro could see a pacing silhouette behind the window. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

"I'll pay you later today, alright? I really appreciate you looking after Edgar. And, well, me, for a little while."

Truthfully, he didn't particularly want them around to find out about the bullshit going on in his life. Otherwise, he might've let them stay a little while longer. They'd done their job, though, so it was only fair that they leave.

"It's no problem, really."

They both cast a nervous glance at the silhouette. He didn't seem particularly _tall... _or menacing. If anything, he was probably nervous, too, given the pacing. If Pedro strained his ears, he could almost hear the timid mutterings behind the door.

He just hoped to god it wasn't a fan.

"Do you want to go out the back door?" he asked quietly. They shook their head.

"It's okay. I can be back-up if they draw a gun," they chuckled.

Pedro's shoulder twitched. _Stop._

"Okay," he sighed. "On the count of three?"

"Sure."

Sometimes Pedro marvelled at his own stupidity.

"One..."

_Why was he always doing things he'd regret in the future?_

"Two..."

He placed a hand on the doorknob. His vision tilted suddenly, but he shook his head and it restored back to the way it was.

"Three."

He twisted the knob and flung the door open. A gust of cold air burst in, making Pedro shiver.

The figure on the other side of the doorway stumbled backwards in surprise. His mouth formed a small 'o' as he observed the two of them.

The immediate conclusion that Pedro _would _have jumped to if his life had any sense of normality was _"oh, it's Omid"_.

But, very clearly, it was not.

"Doctor," Pedro deadpanned.

He realised, in that moment, just how _done _he was with the universe's bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	20. The Doctor

18th Feb 2020 

The dogsitter left.

Pedro was left alone with the doctor.

They stared at each other, neither of them being brave enough to move a muscle. By the time either of them spoke, Pedro was sure it had been at least ten minutes, and the sky outside was just a little bit brighter.

"I'm... I'm looking for Din Djarin," Pershing muttered. His gaze was focused very intently on the side of the doorframe.

Pedro physically resisted the urge to punch him. Instead, he bit his lip, reminding himself that punching anything in his current state wouldn't end well.

"Come in." Pedro stepped aside, allowing the doctor to enter in through the doorway. He really was wearing multiple jackets.

When Pershing was inside, Pedro shut the door with a click. He found himself immediately missing the cold morning air.

Despite the light-headedness, he trodded towards the kitchen counter, sighing as he went. "You want anything to drink?"

"No, that's okay... thank you."

Omid- no,  _ Doctor Pershing  _ looked very out-of-place in Pedro's house. Especially with the layers of dark jackets making him look larger than he actually was.

"You should probably take those off before you overheat," Pedro muttered. "It's cold, but not  _ that  _ cold."

"Right. Yes... sorry."

So the doctor was exactly how he was portrayed in the show. Good to know. At least that gave Pedro something to work with.

He made some coffee for himself. Sure, he was fighting a fever, and sure, caffeine made him hyper, but he was fucking tired, and stressed, and he did what he damn well pleased,  _ thank you very much _ .

By the time he turned back around, the doctor had already hung up his jackets on the coat hanger just by the door. He stood in the middle of the room, and Pedro could see just how skinny he was. 

Omid was skinny, sure, but not like  _ that _ . Pershing was bordering on unhealthy.

"You look dead," Pedro remarked. At this point, he didn't care nor think about what he was saying.

"I  _ feel  _ dead," Pershing sighed softly.

His eyes were sullen. They bore the darkest bags Pedro had ever seen, and he'd been living with an insomniac for two months. 

Pedro sunk down into the couch, gesturing for Pershing to do the same. He did so but sat so far forward that Pedro worried for a moment he would fall off.

"How'd you end up here, then?" Pedro took a sip of his coffee. It burned his tongue, and he knew it did nothing for his fever, but, fuck it.

"Do you think I know the answer to that question?"

Pershing was timid. But he was intelligent, too.

"You're a scientist." 

"One of biological engineering, yes. Not dimensional travel. It's supposed to be a farce."

Pedro leaned back into the couch cushions, staring intently at Pershing, who was, in turn, staring right back.

"Omid would flip his shit if he saw you."

The doctor furrowed his eyebrows. "He is... he's my actor, yes? Omid Abtahi? What do you mean by-?"

" 'Flip his shit'? I mean he would freak the fuck out. Possibly have a mental breakdown. I think he would sit on the floor having an existential crisis. He would never recover." Pedro hummed. "That's what happened to me, anyway."

"You're not Din Djarin."

"No. No, I'm not."

The doctor averted his gaze. The room suddenly fell very silent. Awkward and alien. Literally.

"You're his actor."

"Nice to meet you," Pedro deadpanned. "I've been babysitting a Mandalorian for two months."

Pershing raised both eyebrows. "Baby...sitting?"

Pedro decided he would blame whatever nonsense that spewed out of his mouth on the fever. "He's a nightmare. I mean, bless him, really, but you fuckers really did a number on his psychological well-being, and now  _ my  _ psychological well-being is compromised, too, thanks to your two fucking friends, so, why the fuck are you here and what do you want, you bastard?"

All at once, the doctor recoiled. It was like his entire body folded in on itself. He hunched his shoulders and his eyes became wide, all the while he fidgeted with a loose string on the hem of his shirt. When Pedro peered closer, he could see that Pershing was trembling.

"I'm... I'm not here to cause any trouble."

"Your friends fucking shot me."

"I know. I'm sorry. They acted on their own volition, by the time I found out..." he shook his head solemnly. "It was too late. I'm sorry."

Pedro abruptly stood from the couch, ignoring the wave of dizziness and nausea that rushed over him. He stomped to the kitchen sink then dumped the remainder of his coffee, then rinsed it out to ensure it was clean.

"Come here," he commanded, gesturing to the spot beside him. Reluctantly, Pershing stood from his seat and shuffled awkwardly over where Pedro stood.

Pedro shoved the mug into his hands.

"Smash the cup," Pedro ordered.

"I- _ what? _ "

"Smash it. On the ground. Throw it."

"But-"

"Do it."

The doctor examined the mug for a moment. He eyed it warily, hands still trembling as he did so.

"I-I can't. This is your cup."

The mug was being shoved back towards Pedro, but he refused to grab it. He just shoved his hands into his pockets and stared the doctor down until he took the cup back.

The doctor glanced at the floor, then back at the mug. Then the floor again. And then the mug.

"Are you sur-"

" _ Do it. _ "

Pershing heaved a great sigh. He brought the cup to a great height, holding it at an arm's length, then dropped it. It hit the ground with a loud smash, pieces scattering across the tiling. He visibly winced.

"Good," Pedro said. "Now apologise to it."

"...to the cup?"

"Yes."

He turned awkwardly to the cup on the ground. Then, with a shaky voice, he muttered, "I-I'm sorry, ...Cup."

"Did the apology fix it?"

"...no?"

"Then  _ why, _ " Pedro took a step forward, and the doctor stumbled backwards, nearly falling over onto the floor. "Did you  _ think  _ that an apology would fix my  _ fucking shoulder _ ?" 

Something about the fever must've infected Pedro with unrelenting rage because that's all he could feel. He was just... he was  _ just so tired.  _ All the time.  _ He was fucking sick of it.  _ The pain in his shoulder; a reminder. Loud noises, anything even remotely resembling a gunshot, his shoulder twitched.

And now, Doctor Pershing would stand before him, trembling and on the verge of tears as they stared into each other's eyes.

And that was it. That was the difference. That was always the difference.

The eyes.

They were not Omid's eyes. Omid's were light, full of laughter and humour. He was a  _ happy _ man. Pershing's were null and depressed, sullen, tearful and afraid.

For two months, every time Pedro looked at Din, something felt wrong. He didn't belong. He was out of place. And Pedro could never pinpoint why. But the answer had been in front of him the entire time. It was the eyes.

For the first time, it properly clicked.

_ "This is my face. We look the same. We are  _ not  _ the same." _

And they weren't. Din had been right since the beginning.

And it took him  _ so long _ to finally see it.

"I-I can't. I can't fix anything. I'm sorry," Pershing gulped. "But  _ please,  _ please let me try to help. I've been working with Ivana and Christopher about getting them home. Please, if you allow me to speak to the Mandalorian..."

"Whether or not you get to speak to him isn't up to me."

At this, the doctor's eyes darted around the room. "Where is he?"

"Asleep."

"I see..." A thought seemed to flash in the doctor's mind. "And... what of the child?"

Pedro narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

Nothing about Pershing spelled trust-worthy, but it's not like the Imperials were going to burst through a portal out of nowhere.

Or, at least, he hoped they wouldn't.

"I-I don't want to hurt it!" Pershing insisted. "I would never... after what the Mandalorian did, to protect him. I might be an Imperial, but-"

"But."

"But! I'm not like them. I only follow orders. I  _ never  _ wanted to bring any harm to the child."

Satisfied, but still suspicious, Pedro took a cautious step away from the doctor, who was beginning to visibly redden from shame. Or maybe it was just the incredibly close proximity.

"The child didn't come through with him."

Pershing stared at him for a moment, mouth agape. Instead of bothering to wait for a response, Pedro bent down to pick up the broken pieces of the mug. The sudden movement made him feel momentarily faint, but he purposefully ignored it. 

"That's... I don't understand."

Pedro didn't need to see him to know his eyebrows were furrowed.

"There's not much to be confused about," Pedro retorted.

"The child was with him, no? Before he travelled?"

Pedro stood again, clutching the pieces in his hands. He pushed past Pershing to dump the pieces into the bin.

"That's what he says."

Pershing was quiet. When Pedro turned to look at him again, the doctor was staring very intently at the opposing wall as though it had personally offended him. After a moment, he shook his head, then turned to look back at Pedro.

"That doesn't make sense. I watched the show - brilliant, by the way, truly - and if the Mandalorian came through at the end of season one, then the child was most  _ certainly _ with him, and so there's absolutely no reason they wouldn't have both come through."

Pedro only shrugged. "We don't have him. Din never saw him."

"When did he appear?"

"What?"

Pershing wrung his hands in front of him, shifting his weight from foot to foot for a moment before he spoke. "When did Din Djarin come through? How long has it been?"

"Approaching two months, I think. I've lost all sense of time though so I'm not really a reliable source."

"Two months..."

Pedro's fevered brain took a moment to catch up. But when it did, he gasped. "You've been here  _ longer?" _

"...I didn't want to alarm you. From what I've seen you've got enough on your plate." 

" _ How long? _ "

Pershing shifted on his feet. He opened his mouth to speak, then immediately closed it again.

"Tell me," Pedro hissed.

"I-I'm not sure you want to know."

"I don't care. I feel like I'm dying where I stand. Every time I move my entire vision shifts. Just tell me;  _ How. Long. _ "

"You have a fever?"

"Don't change the subject."

The doctor stared for a moment, then pivoted on the spot, and started pacing. He ran his hands over his face, and every now and then, his step would contain a nervous bounce.

Eventually, he stopped. He turned to face Pedro with his arms crossed protectively over his chest. The sun shone brighter now, and Pedro could see the nervous sweat coating his forehead.

"Five years." 

Pedro felt his soul leave his body. 

"Five. Fi-... Five years."

Pershing nodded solemnly.

"You're fucking with me," Pedro hissed. "Tell me you're fucking with me."

"I really wish I was. I'm sorry."

"No. No, you have to be. That's- that's, I-" Pedro stumbled over his words. He spluttered, his mind racing, anxiety creeping up his spine. "Jesus christ."

"It was... it must've been around October. I don't know. I don't remember anymore. I've needed to survive without a job, or... anything." Pershing's eyes appeared distant for a moment, like he was reliving the memories all over again. Then he seemed to pull himself back to reality. "I was so grateful when Ivana and Christopher found me."

Pedro stumbled over to the couch. He collapsed onto it, feeling the cushions sink beneath him.

"Five goddamn years," he mumbled. "And I thought there was hope."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told-"

"No." Pedro sighed. He pushed himself up so he was sitting straight. "It's fine. I'm glad you did. It's just... it's just a lot."

"I can barely comprehend it myself," Pershing murmured. He sunk down into the couch next to Pedro, hands resting nervously on his knees. "It was after the Mandalorian took the child. After he spared me... I recall, very vividly. I was sitting there, against the wall, for a very long time, just thinking. And then there was a bright light. A bright orange light. It consumed me, enveloped me, and before I could even  _ comprehend  _ what was going on... I was in an alleyway dumpster." 

Pershing shook his head, as if willing the awful memory to go away. "It was a rough time."

"What happened?" Pedro asked before he could think any better of it. He rested his head on the back of the couch.

When the doctor didn't respond, Pedro turned to look at him, only to see tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He was glaring quite intensely at the wall.

"Pershing?"

The doctor blinked, then shook his head again. He leaned back into the couch then brought up his hands to run them over his face.

"Sorry. Sorry. I zoned out."

"Looked like a bit more than that."

"I know. I know. I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologise."

Pershing smiled unconvincingly. "Thanks."

There was an awkward silence. Pedro could feel Pershing's presence sticking out like a sore thumb. It felt uncomfortable, like he was invading his space. Din had never felt like that. At least not to such a degree.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he tried, attempting to break whatever icy barrier had formed between them.

"Not particularly."

It didn't work.

"That's fine."

More silence.

"Were you living with Ivana and Christopher?" Pedro asked after a moment.

Pershing hummed. "I was. All three of us hid there. Christopher was the one providing us with the funds required to pay rent, even though he-..." The doctor trailed off, then shook his head. "No. Nevermind. It's not my place to say."

Pedro decided not to push it. "What was his work?"

"Street performances. Music, you know. Street art as well. Anything that could pay. Anyplace that would take him. Sometimes it was illegal. Sometimes it wasn't enough. But all three of us made it work." He sighed. "I fear I won't be able to pay for it on my own."

"Stay with us.”

_ Oh, god. Make a habit of it, why don't you? _

He hadn't even given it a second thought. What if he couldn't be trusted? What if it was just a bloody scheme?

_ Are you kidding? Look at him. He couldn't hurt a fly. _

_ They just want to go home. That's all. _

Pershing was staring at him, bewildered. He blinked. "I-I don't understand."

"I want you to stay with us."

"That is unwise. The Mandalorian-"

"This is  _ my  _ house. He doesn't get a say in this."

Even so, Pedro couldn't help but think about how upset Din would be about the arrangement.

"I wouldn't want to intrude," Pershing murmured.

"I'm inviting you. That's not intrusive."

The doctor looked so tired. So very tired. He supposed that would happen after  _ five years _ of... well, this.

"Do you have any luggage?" Pedro asked when Pershing didn't respond.

"...This," the doctor gestured to himself, "is... all I have." 

"Your clothes?"

"And a few notebooks. And some pens. Valuables haven't exactly been on my list of priorities. We try to keep our possessions at a minimum."

"Ivana and Christopher have all sorts of... you know, gadgets, and stuff."

"Yes, but, those are from  _ their  _ universe. When they appeared, that technology came with them, because, at the  _ time  _ they were touring an exhibition, and-" 

"That stuff isn't theirs?" Pedro frowned. 

"Not at all! You must have this idea in your head, that they're agents, or something... but they were regular people. Husband and wife, they... they had just gotten married, they said... when it happened."

Pedro turned so that he was fully facing Pershing. He rested the side of his face against the couch. "Tell me about them," he said.

The doctor appeared to hesitate. He opened his mouth a few times, only to close it again.

"There's not much to say. Or... or rather, there's quite a bit, but I am not within my right to say it."

"Can you at least tell me why Christopher thought it'd be okay to  _ shoot _ me?"

Pershing got up from the couch with a resigned sigh. He trudged over to the dining table, stopping before it, then began to pace back and forth.

"Christopher is a complicated man," he eventually seemed to settle on.

Complicated?  _ Complicated? _

Pedro felt his face grow hot.

"He fucking shot me. Don't come into my fucking house and tell me the man who  _ shot me is fucking complicated. _ "

The doctor stopped pacing, then stared down at the ground. "There's no other way I can put it," he murmured. "He's not a bad person."

"Then why did he shoot me?!"

" _ He's desperate! _ "

The sudden rise in the doctor's voice made Pedro jump. He blinked, biting the inside of his lip.

"How long has he been here?" he croaked.

Pershing's expression fell. "That- that is not my information to give."

"Then you can't expect me to sympathise with him. I'm going back to bed. Choose an empty room to sleep in." 

Pedro turned to leave and used the railing to haul himself up the stairs, his footsteps landing heavily on each step.

"Ten years." 

He halted at the top of the stairs. His hand was still gripping onto the railing as he peered down at Pershing, who was looking up at him with an expression that could only be described as fear.

"They've been here for a decade."

Slowly, Pedro descended back down the stairway, eventually reaching the bottom and he gazed over at the doctor.

"Okay," he rasped. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o!
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	21. Din listened.

**As before, an asterisk will be placed before and after a potentially upsetting scene.**

18th Feb 2020

Din stumbled down the stairs.

Literally. He thought he must've caught his foot on something because when he was halfway down the stairs, he tripped and fell the rest of the way. It was the single most embarrassing thing he'd ever done, and to make matters worse, Pedro was staring at him with a bewildered expression on his face.

It wasn't until Din got back on his feet that he realised Pedro wasn't the only one in the room. There, on the couch, was the very person he had been trying not to think about.

And Din wasn't wearing his fucking helmet.

He stared. Pershing stared right back. Pedro glanced between the two of them warily.

"Why is he here?" Din hissed.

"I didn't invite him, if that's what you're thinking," Pedro sighed.

Immediately Din noticed the distinct difference in Pedro's voice. It was hoarse, and quiet, like it physically pained him to talk. And upon closer inspection, he could see the hair stuck to his forehead and the prominent bags under his eyes. _He's sick._

And suddenly, it was like the doctor's presence didn't even matter anymore. Din sped over to Pedro, grabbing his arm and placing the back of his hand on Pedro's forehead. He immediately withdrew it, hissing and grabbing his hand.

"You're boiling!"

"Hm," Pedro hummed. "I noticed."

"No, I mean, you're _boiling. _I've held hot iron cooler than that."

"Well, that can't be good."

"You're delirious."

"Probably."

Din huffed, then, took Pedro's shoulders and pushed him onto the couch. "You're going to rest."

"I _tried _that already."

"Then try harder."

"You're such a hypocrite."

Din grumbled something under his breath as he trudged to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with cold water. He sauntered back over with a frown, then shoved the glass in Pedro's direction. "Drink it before you keel over and die."

Pedro rolled his eyes, but took the glass anyway, and took a few small sips.

Din had almost forgotten about the doctor entirely until he turned around and saw the man staring at him incredulously.

"...Hi?" Pershing mumbled.

They stared at each other.

"Please tell me this is the actor and not the actual doctor," Din deadpanned.

"Sorry," Pedro croaked. "Omid isn't even in LA right now."

Din heaved a great sigh. "Fuck it, then, right?" He groaned, running his hands over his face. "Great."

"I should have warned you."

"No, no, _no, _it's fine. It's fine. _It's fine. _I'm fine."

Din slumped down onto the couch, his hands still covering his face, almost protectively. He groaned again then muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

"I'm sorry," said the doctor. "I didn't mean to violate-"

"Shut up," Din hissed. He felt Pedro whack his arm.

"Pershing is here to help," he said. "He's been here since before the sun was even up, and we've been discussing ways of getting you home."

"Any luck, then?"

"Not _yet, _no-"

"Then he's about as useless as he was when I met him."

"_Din._"

"I'm going back to bed."

With that, Din stood from the couch with his arms crossed protectively over his chest and began to lumber back to the stairs. Each step felt heavier than the previous one, and soon enough, he was stomping back up the stairs.

"You can't keep doing this!" Pedro hollered from the couch. "Pushing people away won't help you!"

_Sure._

"You're going to be stuck here forever! Are you listening? _Din!_"

He slammed the bedroom door behind him. He locked the door just as he heard Pedro beginning to bound up the stairs.

_Just leave. Please._

"Din!" Pedro pounded on the door. "Come on, _please._"

He let himself fall onto the bed. It creaked under him as he rolled over onto his side, back to the door and staring out the window.

Suddenly, the pounding stopped. The floorboards behind the door creaked like Pedro was shifting his weight, then there was the sound of footsteps walking away and back down the stairs.

The silence that followed felt suffocating. Now, Din was properly alone, with nothing but his thoughts and the eight am traffic below.

He could hear distant muttering downstairs. It sounded frustrated. Din closed his eyes, willing the wave of emotion to wash over him, but the tightness in his throat only increased and every second that went by made it harder to breathe.

He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know what was happeningto him. He didn't know where to go, or how to go there, he couldn't make sense of anything anymore - and now the doctor had seen him without his helmet. It's not like it matteredin the grand scheme of things because he'd already seen Pedro and they have the same face, but...

Pedro would've said, _"it doesn't count, because you're in an alternate reality"_. But it _did _matter. It mattered to _him_. Three decades - three! - he'd gone by without once breaking the creed. And in the span of barely two months, he'd shown his face to three people.

An exception could be made for Pedro. They had the same face, it was _fine. _But Jon? And Pershing?

It wasn't his identity that was the issue. The helmet wasn't to protect him. It didn't matter if Jon and the doctor already knew what he looked like because that wasn't the point.

That was never the point.

_Doesn't matter anymore, anyway._

At one point, he fell asleep. It was the best rest he'd had in a long time. He woke up some hours later and was considering going _back _to sleep, but then he realised why he woke up in the first place. Someone was knocking on his door.

He didn't want to get up and open it. He just wanted rest. But... he couldn't hide forever.

So, he pushed himself off the bed and padded towards the door. His hand hovered over the knob for a moment before he unlocked it, then pulled it open.

Pedro stood on the other side, looking even more dead than he had previously. His arms were wrapped around his torso like he was hugging himself, and his hair was covering his eyes.

"Din," Pedro breathed. "Uh... I was wondering if you wanted to go shopping for some new clothes."

He wanted to say yes. He knew Pedro wanted him to say yes.

"Aren't you too sick?"

Pedro shrugged. "I feel mostly fine. I want some fresh air anyway." He paused for a moment. "Please?"

He looked so desperate. Tired, and feverish, yes, but...

"Sure."

When had fresh air ever done any harm?

-

Pershing was still in the living room when Din came down the stairs. He was sitting at the dining table and writing in marker on a large piece of paper that had all sorts of drawings and formulae Din couldn't understand. The doctor only glanced up for a brief second before returning to his writings once more.

Once he and Pedro were out through the front door, Pedro sighed.

"Pershing will be staying with us for the time being. I know you're probably not okay with that, but, he doesn't have anywhere else to go at the moment."

It definitely wasn't fine. He definitely wasn't okay with it. But it's not like he could do anything about it, so he just nodded and got into the car, biting his tongue to stop himself from speaking.

Los Angeles looked a lot different during the day. Other than the fact that it was brighter, Din found it was generally less pleasant to look at. Perhaps he was biased, seeing as he spent most of his years in the black emptiness of space, but it just didn't look as clean, or otherworldly.

It was almost unpleasant.

Or maybe he was just in a sour mood.

He didn't know how long the drive was, only that, after a while, Pedro parked in front of a very large building.

"Shopping centre," Pedro explained. "Bunch of stores 'n shit. You can stop and look around if you want but I'm worried I'll just keel over if we stay too long."

Din nodded, pointedly deciding not to point out how bad of an idea it was for Pedro to be out and about with a fever. They both hopped out of the car and even with the sunglasses, the daylight blared in his eyes.

"Aren't you worried about being recognised?" he asked as he followed Pedro towards the entrance. "What if people take photos of you? The- the- you know, the-"

"Paparazzi? Whatever. I'm not worried about them. They don't know who you are."

"I'm more concerned about the 'media' saying you're dying."

"Why would you be worried about that?"

"Because you look like you're dying."

They stepped into the centre and were immediately blasted with a rush of warm air. The area was busy, but Din had a feeling this was tame compared to what it could be after work hours.

There were moving stairs going up and down, carrying people from one floor to the next. Some decided to let it carry them and others used them like actual stairs.

"I always look like I'm dying. What sort of style you looking for, then?"

"...Style?"

"Clothing style. Colours, you know... that sort of thing."

Din thought for a moment. He glanced around at the surrounding crowd but found he didn't much like any of their styles at all.

"I don't know," he eventually shrugged. "Something that won't make me stand out."

He never cared much for fashion. Mostly because he was always in the armour so it wasn't like he had a chance to care about fashion anyway.

"You have to give me more than that. Come on, what do you _like?_"

"...things that won't make me stand out?"

Pedro rolled his eyes. "Fine. Let's just go into a random store and if you see something you might wear then hail me over."

Din watched for a moment as Pedro trekked towards one of the many stores surrounding them. After a second, he followed, and before long, he was staring at an array of clothes that he really had no interest in.

Perhaps he'd just choose something comfortable. He could have that at least, he supposed.

There were jackets, many similar to the one he'd borrowed from Pedro. Tight jeans and loose jeans and shirts with words in silly fonts. Pedro stood awkwardly to the side, pretending to look at button-downs, tapping his foot on the carpeted floor.

Din wanted something that could cover skin, and keep him warm, but also something for the summer. The button-downs were somewhat appealing, and there were plenty of dark ones that weren't too eye-catching, but they were too thin and fitted.

The jackets looked nice but most of them looked _too _warm or just too similar to the one he was already wearing. He had a sneaking suspicion this was where Pedro gets most of his clothes.

He slowly approached the jackets, feeling his way through them. Too thick, too thin, too thick, too thin...

He stopped, examining the one in his hands. It was padded and had a hood which bore fake fur around the rim. A bit too thick, but...

Slowly, he slid it off the rack, holding it up so he could see all of it. It wasn't much like any other jacket he'd seen before, but the hood with the fur reminded him somewhat of the clothes he'd seen people wear on snow planets like Hoth.

"Excuse me?"

The sudden voice made him jump. He didn't recognise it- it was male, but not Pedro, or Jon. He whipped around, clutching the jacket by his side.

The man before him was young, and a fair bit shorter. He seemed to be in his twenties... maybe younger.

"Hi," he breathed. "I'm sorry to bother, I-I know you're probably busy, but... could I have a photo with you?"

Oh. _Oh._

That wasn't good.

At all.

_They think I'm Pedro._

Apparently his stupid 'disguise'hadn't at all been as good as he thought.

_Can't they see he's right around the corner? Why did you have to come to me?_

He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly realised that talking wouldn't do him any favours. Instead, he awkwardly sauntered past the boy, hoping they didn't think he was being rude, then pointed towards the _actual _Pedro standing barely a foot away.

The boy's mouth fell into an 'o'. He glanced between them, eyebrows furrowed and visibly confused. Pedro stared back, equally as perplexed as the boy.

Suddenly, Pedro appeared to realise what was happening, and he smiled.

"The similarities are incredible, right?"

The boy nodded.

"You want a photo?"

The boy nodded again, holding up his phone. "If that's okay!"

"Of course!"

Pedro had lit up like a light-bulb. He even looked less feverish, or, rather, less dead. He smiled genuinely as the boy snapped the photo, and continued to smile genuinely after the boy had said his thanks and left.

"Do you get recognised often?" Din asked after the whole ordeal was over.

Pedro shrugged.

"Sometimes. It's always nice when it happens. Except if I'm busy, you know... I'll never forget the airport incident... they kept pestering me... anyway, yeah, sometimes."

"Airport... incident?"

"Luggage problems, and being interrogated, nearly missing my flight, it was a mess, trust me- that's not important, though. You picked a jacket!"

Din looked down at the jacket now clutched tightly in his arm. It had become scrunched. He quickly un-scrunched it, then held it up for Pedro to look at.

"Is this okay?" he asked. "I couldn't find anything else I liked."

"Yes, yes, that's more than okay. And it's got a big hood, you can hide your face better... and it'll keep you warm... is it the right size?"

Din looked at it for a moment. It could be his size. It seemed to be. He hadn't really considered otherwise.

"Yes...?" he said uncertainly.

"Try it on."

"What? But-"

"Go ahead! You're allowed to. I'll hold your other jacket."

Reluctantly, Din shrugged off the jacket he was already wearing, then quickly pulled on the new one.

It was... strangely comfortable. Nothing like he'd ever worn before. It was soft on the inside, and had pockets that zipped up. He pulled the hood over his head, and surprisingly enough it didn't obscure his vision.

"Yes, yes. That looks good! It feels good?"

"It feels fine."

"Great!"

Before Din could even process it, Pedro was dragging the jacket off his shoulders and taking it up to the counter, where there sat a bored-looking young girl staring into space.

He watched as he paid, and the tag was torn off. The girl took the hanger and stored it somewhere under the desk. Before long, Pedro was sauntering back over with the jacket in hand, holding it out for Din to take.

"Mission: Obtain new clothing is successful. Do you want pants?"

"Do I want-?"

"Pants."

"I don't really _need-_"

"Pants it is!"

_For someone with a fever, you sure are energetic._

He stood for a moment, watching Pedro practically bounce out of the store. He furrowed his eyebrows, trying to figure out the very sudden switch. One moment Pedro had been the epitome of brooding, and the next...

_Oh, _the realisation dawned on him just as Pedro turned to him, wondering why he wasn't following. _He's distracting himself, then._

Din sighed, and, throwing the jacket over his shoulder, he followed.

"I really don't need any new clothes," he said once he was close enough and they began walking. "I don't want you to waste your credits on me."

"Hm? No, it's fine. I want to do this."

"You look like you're about to keel over. At least walk slower."

"I'm fine."

As he said that, though, he tripped over his own feet, and only narrowly avoided falling face-first onto the cold tiles below.

"Yeah. Sure," Din mumbled. "You're _fine._"

"I am!"

"Then why are you swaying?"

"I'm-"

"_Stop._"

Pedro's mouth abruptly shut, and he swallowed. Din reached out and grabbed Pedro's wrist, turning it over and placing two fingers below his thumb.

"Have you checked your temperature?" Din asked, still holding Pedro's wrist.

"It's about a hundred-and-three. I've had worse."

"What's your resting heart-rate?"

Pedro seemed to think for a moment. He hummed, then sighed. "I don't know, I- I don't really check. Sixty something? Seventy something, probably?"

"You need to go home, then." Din dropped Pedro's wrist, and he let it fall to his side.

"I feel fine."

"If you're _fine, _then explain to me why your beat-per-minute is well over a hundred."

They stood for a moment, staring at each other. People passed by them, not sparing a glance, even as they stood in the dead centre of the room. They stood out like a sore thumb, staring each other down.

Pedro swayed on the spot. His hair was stuck to his forehead, and his skin was glistening from the sweat. Still, he visibly shivered, even though he was likely teetering on the edge of hyperthermia.

Out of the corner of his eye, Din noticed a man off to the side, holding a camera up to his face, and clicking the button to take a photo. He resisted the urge to turn and yell at him. _Don't draw attention._

"Paparazzi's arrived," Din murmured just loud enough for Pedro to hear, "In case you feel like leaving anytime soon."

"I'm not worried about the media," Pedro scoffed. "What sort of headline would they make out of me, anyway?"

"_Mandalorian star Pedro Pascal teetering on the edge of death..._"

"I can't look _that _bad."

"Believe me when I say that you do."

"I-"

Whatever Pedro was going to say seemed to dissipate entirely as he trailed off, his shoulders slumping in resignation. A frown formed on his features and his gaze fell to the floor.

"Fine," he muttered. "Let's go."

...that didn't feel good. _At all._

He hated it. He hated seeing Pedro so downtrodden. He wasn't like that when they met.

It all took a turn for the worse after he got shot. _He hasn't been the same. _Something was always off. He was always frowning, or making a sarcastic remark, snapping at something that annoyed him, something was _always _off_._

They were walking back out the door, into the cold winter air. Pedro had his hands shoved stubbornly in his pockets, his head hung low.

He slammed the door when he hopped back into the car. Din clutched the new jacket tightly to his torso and awkwardly stared out the window as Pedro started the car.

It was suffocatingly silent, even with the car engine in the background. The silence only became more apparent when Din realised they weren't driving away.

*****

Concerned, Din turned to ask Pedro if something was wrong, only for all of his words to completely vanish in an instant.

Pedro was hunched over the steering wheel. His arms were folded over his head. His hands gripped his arms in such a way that it made his knuckles turn white.

Din shifted in his seat. He tried to get closer, tried to ask if he was alright, reached out an arm to tap him on the shoulder, but then he noticed the ragged breathing. The brilliant tremor. How his entire torso jolted.

There was a low whine. A sharp intake of breath. An unsettled exhale.

Shaking. Pedro was shaking.

He could almost hear it, if he listened. The shaking, his heartbeat. Aching.

"Pedro?"

A broken sob. A muffled choke. Silence. Then, crying.

Din was frozen. He could only watch. His mind was racing, there were a million things he _needed _to say - but he couldn't.

_Is this my fault?_

_This is my fault._

Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? Let Pedro have his fun?

_He's got a fever._

So what?

_Now look at him._

Upset.

_Stop crying._

"Pedro," he croaked, pleading. "Please."

_Please stop crying. Please stop._

_I don't know what to do._

_You can't expect me to just sit here._

_Is this how you feel?_

_All the time?_

_You don't deserve this._

_You're so good to me._

_Please help me make it right._

_I can't just sit here._

_Please stop crying._

Din felt his mind begin to shut down. He couldn't- he couldn't _think. _His mind was failing him. He couldn't move, he couldn't look away. Frozen to his seat, watching, not knowing what to say or do, his only friend breaking down in front of him. Crying. Feverish. Muttering nonsense, choking on his own tears.

Shaking. Genuinely shaking.

Gagging.

For a moment, for a split second, he would pause, and there would be silence, and then, crying. More crying.

And still more, and still more.

How long had they been there?

Felt like hours.

He tried to block it out.

The crying. The car engine. People talking outside. The racing inner monologue. _Sounds._

Too much. Too many of them. Too many sounds.

Chills down his spine. Feeling hot. Fatigued. _So tired._

All the time. Tired.

Was Pedro tired?

Must be. _Look at him._

_This is your fault._

Piece of shit.

_Why'd you bother?_

_What was the point?_

_You should never have gotten involved in his life._

_Taken him for granted._

_Look what you did to him._

It was quiet.

Very suddenly, it was quiet.

"I'm sorry."

Din hadn't spoken.

It was Pedro. Still hunched over the wheel. Still shaking. But quiet.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, as though he had something to be sorry for. "I'm so sorry."

Din tore the scarf off his face. He tasted salt.

Words were on the tip of his tongue. Itching. Yet, he couldn't speak.

Pedro sat up. His face was red. Wet. He squinted.

"I-"

He trailed off. Words died on his tongue. Silence. Then, another tear fell. And another. And he was crying again.

But now his face wasn't hidden. Now Din could see, see the tears falling and Pedro's desperate attempts to wipe them away, could see him opening his mouth to say something and then only being able to formulate a splutter before he began to choke and gag.

"I- you- _I'm sorry,_" he blubbered. "I don't-"

_Know what's happening?_

_Neither do I._

"Two months, _two months-_"

Pedro shuddered. His face was scrunched.

"Two months of _this, _nothing- nothing _but-_" His voice cracked. He buried his face in his palms. "_I'm sorry._"

Din's eyes stung. His vision was blurred. He bit his hand. A chill crept up his spine. He shivered. It was cold, but not in a windy way. It was dread. Biting dread. The kind of dread that snuck up on you, and struck you from behind. He'd felt it when his parents were killed. When he was caught in the Siege. It returned to haunt him when he found the discarded bassinet. Ate away at him when Kuuil was killed. Overwhelmed him when he discovered discarded helmets in the covert. And it was all his fault.

_It was always his fault._

Dread.

Invading him. Occupying him. He'd felt it since the first day, every day, every hour, but now, it was only growing stronger and stronger. He couldn't shake it away. Couldn't cry it out. The tears in his eyes refused to fall, as the dread swallowed every single ounce of hope he'd had left.

*****

"You're the best thing that- that _ever _happened to me, you know that, _right?_"

Din's breath hitched. And the tears fell. "I don't understand."

Pedro looked on. His eyes focused intently on Din's. Brimming.

"You're the best thing that ever- _ever _happened," he paused to take a shaky breath, "to me. You- I couldn't be more _grateful. _If you hadn't come for me when you did, I might not even be sitting here today. Christopher had no hesitation shooting me, who the hell knows what else they would've done to me if they had more time.

"God, I- I fucking hate everything, sometimes I just-" he clenched his fists, heightened his shoulders. "Sometimes I hate everything so much, and I _just _want it to _stop, _but-"

He brought his closed fist to his mouth. Shut his eyes tight. More tears.

"You're like- you're like a _brother _to me, I- I can't stand to see you in so much pain, I can't do anything about it, I want to help _so badly _but everything I do ends up a crushing disaster, I want you to know how much you mean to me but I can't put it into words, you just- just _listen. _To me. Please, _hermano, _for a second..."

Din listened.

"I want to help you, so _so_ bad. I need to help you. You won't let me, you keep pushing me away, how do you expect to feel better if you keep pushing me away? Everyone. We want to _help- _Pershing, Jon, even Julia! She doesn't even know half of it but she still wants to help, she always asks if you're okay, she always- she's always checking in on you.

"And Jon, too, he cares about you- please, believe me, he _cares _about you, he wants you to be happy, he's not a monster, he doesn't want to punish you, he- he's always telling me that he feels so guilty because you've suffered so much, and- and Pershing is the only damn hope you have, he's the only one smart enough to work this shit out, he's been here- he's been in this dimension for _five years. _Don't you understand? Please, please understand. He doesn't give a shit about the kid. _He wants to go home._

"And- and I- every time I look at you I get this overwhelming sensation of uselessness because I can't help, nothing I try is helping, there's nothing I can do if you don't let me- I wanted to buy you some clothes, not because I want you to stop wearing mine but because I want you to have your own sense of identity to fall back on if all else fails, if- if in the end- you can't go back, then you have- then you have _something._

"Din- _Din- _Din, you will _always _have me. Through everything. I will never leave you. I will never send you away, please don't think for even a _second _that I would- that I would want you out of my life. I want you to stay, through it all- I'm stressed and yes, fucking hell, I was just bawling my eyes out, but I wouldn't trade you for anything. _Anything._"

By the time Pedro had finished talking, he'd stopped crying completely. And, if Din focused through his own tears, it even seemed as though Pedro was visibly lighter. Still sweaty, yes, feverish, tired, but...

"How am I a good thing?" Din murmured, not even sure if he wanted to hear an answer, and ruin everything that had just been said. "How do you expect me to believe that?"

Pedro huffed, wiping the tears staining his face. He turned back to the wheel, appearing distant.

"Does anything I say even matter to you?" he mumbled.

"Of course it does."

Din found himself saying it before he even thought it. But it was true. _Of course, it matters._

_You matter. I'm sorry I'm too scared to say it. Isn't it so ironic? I can kill and capture murderers for a living, but as soon as I'm presented with a situation that's even remotely awkward, I freeze._

"You-"

He froze. He didn't know how to proceed. How could he?

He was useless with words.

He'd just fuck it all up.

But...

"I wrote a note," he croaked. _No turning back now. _"A couple of days ago. I never gave it to you." He bowed his head, feeling shame creep into him. "I'm sorry."

"What was the note?"

Pedro was looking at him now. But there was no judgement, no anger.

Din hesitated.

"I can't- I can't _explain..._"

"You don't have to."

There was silence for a moment. Not awkward, but not necessarily comfortable either.

"You don't have to show me the note, either," Pedro continued. "You don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

"Opening up... makes me uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I keep pushing you. But you don't have to talk." Pedro stared back out the windscreen. A large family passed by, two children trailing beside a mother and father, and a baby being pushed in a pram. They looked happy, and content. It felt nice to watch, as they laughed, and the children skipped.

"I'm not very good at this," Pedro sighed. "But... just know that I am here for you. Please don't forget that."

_I won't. _"I want to show you the note."

"Are you sure?"

"Not really."

He shuffled in his seat, feeling another chill go down his spine. The family was hopping into their car. A big white one, with a spare tire on the back. There were two baby seats, he could see. One for the baby, and another for the youngest child.

He turned his head so that he was facing Pedro.

"Can we go back to your house?"

Pedro sat in silence for a moment, before finally, nodding and grabbing the wheel.

"Yeah. Let's go."

Pershing wasn't anywhere to be seen when they got back. The only evidence he'd ever been there at all was the papers strewn about on the table and the lid left off of a marker.

Edgar barked at them when they came in through the door, jumping on Pedro's legs and then on Din's. He panted, barked, panted, then barked some more.

"Hola, Edgar," Pedro sighed wistfully. He bent down to pet the dog then stood back up after a moment, stretching. Din heard some joints pop.

"You should check your temperature again," Din suggested. "It's not good to walk around with a fever."

Pedro sauntered over to the kitchen, where he proceeded to grab a mug from one of the cupboards. "My fever broke."

"...what?"

He shrugged nonchalantly.

"But- but you were sick. I saw. You were swaying. And disoriented."

He shrugged again, scooping out a teaspoon of coffee and dumping it into the mug. "I feel really hot. And that's a good thing because it means I'm sweating properly, so the fever is gone."

"...I guess? I don't think that's how it works."

Pedro made his coffee and sipped it. They stood in silence, neither of them wanting to speak.

After five minutes, Din sighed. He crossed his arms protectively over his chest. "I was going to show you the note."

Pedro took another sip of his coffee. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"I... know. I want to. I wrote it for you so I should give it to you."

"Just because you can doesn't mean you should."

Din huffed. "I'm going to show it. It's upstairs..."

Pedro nodded, taking another sip of coffee. "Okay. Take your time."

Slowly, Din made his way up the stairs. The floorboards creaked under him. He felt heavy and was overwhelmed with a very sudden sense of fatigue.

He pushed open the door to his room, then traversed to his bedside table where the note was folded under a lamp. He took a moment to read over it again, ensuring there were no mistakes or things he should cross out, or make clearer...

Then he realised he'd already done all that, and that he was only stalling.

He left the room and peered over the edge of the railing. Pedro was sitting on the couch, his legs crossed, sipping his coffee.

Taking a deep breath, Din slowly descended down the stairs, clutching the note in his hand and trying his best not to scrunch it up.

He got to the bottom and stood awkwardly for a moment, waiting for Pedro to look up. But he didn't, seemingly all-too focussed on an apparently very interesting section of the carpet.

Din tip-toed over. Pedro finally looked up, his eyes moving from the note then up to Din's face.

"You don't have to," he said again. "Really. If you're uncomfortable with it."

Din shook his head. "I want to."

He glanced down at the note, unfolding it. He ran over it with his eyes, just _making sure... _There was nothing wrong with it, nothing that he could see, but what if? What if Pedro misread? Misunderstood? His handwriting was still shit. What if Pedro couldn't read it? Maybe he should've typed it all, instead. But Pedro didn't have a printer back at the apartment, and it would be unfair to ask him to read the text on his phone since he _knew _Pedro didn't have the best eyesight-

"Are you okay?"

He was suddenly pulled back to reality. He realised he was shaking.

"_Di'kut,_" he hissed to himself, sighing. "Fine. I'm fine. It's just stupid. I can kill and capture people for a living, but I can't even give you this stupid note. I want to, I _know _I want to. But I can't."

Pedro seemed to think for a moment. Din could see him biting the inside of his mouth.

"That sounds like anxiety."

"Whatever it is, it makes me feel like a-" he paused, hesitating. "like, like a coward."

He felt vulnerable. Especially now that the doctor was going to be in the same house as them. He'd decided there was little point in covering his face, it would just be a waste of time, and effort... but it still made him feel vulnerable and exposed.

"Anxiety doesn't make you a... what was the word? A _hut'uun. _The fact that you're willing to do this at all says that you're brave. It scares you, but you're doing it anyway. That's the opposite of cowardice."

"But, I-"

"No buts."

"I _hid._"

Pedro blinked. "What're you talking about?"

"When- when Christopher came, on that night. The night you were shot. I heard the gun and your yelling, and I hid. The entire time. Until he left, I hid. You can't tell me that isn't cowardice."

Pedro furrowed his eyebrows. He frowned. But it didn't feel angry, or disappointed, only confused. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, his frown only deepening. Din shifted where he stood, wringing his hands in front of him, still clutching the note tightly in his palm.

He wasn't sure how long Pedro stared at him for. Only that he was beginning to feel very uncomfortable.

"Please say something," he croaked.

Pedro turned his gaze to the floor.

"There's... there's not much for me to say. Just... that... for what it's worth, I don't think you're a coward." He paused, bringing his eyes back up to meet Din's. "I hope that counts for something."

It didn't.

"Here, just..." Din shoved the note in Pedro's direction. "Read it."

He watched as Pedro took the note out of his hand and flipped it over to the writing.

He watched as Pedro's eyes scanned it, facial expression completely neutral. At one point Din must've sat down, but he didn't remember when. He just knew that by the time Pedro was done reading, he was at eye-level and his legs felt weak.

He didn't know how long it'd been, but eventually, Pedro folded up the note and placed it in his lap.

They sat in silence for a full minute. Pedro stared at the wall, and Din watched him in cautious anticipation.

After some time, Pedro took a sip of his coffee.

"Thanks for showing me," he said softly. "This... I know it's hard for you to talk about this. I don't understand why, and I won't pretend to. But I appreciate you trying. And I appreciate the apology."

"I should never... I should never have-"

"What's done is done, and you've apologised. There's no more to it."

Pedro's eyes suddenly snapped up to Din's. Din stared for a moment, then very quickly averted his gaze to Pedro's chin.

"It's not okay," Pedro continued. "And I'm not going to pretend that it is. I'm a bit sick of that at this point."

"I'm not expecting forgiveness."

"I was hoping you wouldn't."

Din tried not to let that sting.

"I've been mulling it over in my mind," Pedro sighed. "A bit too often. I can barely even remember it. Just feels hazy. Um..."

Pedro shifted in his seat, staring awkwardly down at the floor. "I'm not sure about you going back to the studio. I mean... after what happened..."

"I can deal with it," Din protested. "All of it. The kid too. I'll get used to it."

"You seemed pretty sure you could deal with it last time, too."

"I can. I know I can."

"With everything going on..."

"The doctor said everything should be fine. We left the house today, didn't we?"

"Since when do you trust Pershing?"

"You trust him. Why shouldn't I?"

"Don't lie to me."

Din frowned. He clenched his fists.

"I'm not lying."

Pedro got up from the couch, the note discarded on the cushion. Din watched as he took his cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, staring out the window. There was a small green bird resting in one of the trees. It chirped, and it chirped, and it chirped, and for a moment Din was mesmerised by it.

Pedro took a breath, and Din was back to reality. His expression was pulled into a deep frown, and his knuckles were turning white.

"I'm not going to pretend to understand you," he said after a moment. "But just know that I'm trying. I'm really trying."

Din bit the inside of his mouth. "Are you angry?" he asked in a hushed tone. He suddenly felt like a child.

A forgotten memory rushed at him. His father, standing in the doorway, bearing a haunted expression.

"Possibly."

"I'm not lying."

"See, Din, the problemwith that is that I can tell that you _are_."

Din ducked his head. He tried to stop the shame from creeping up his spine. He glared down at his feet.

"I'm sorry," he rasped.

"Just- I know you want to go to the set, but we don't know if it's safe. If there's anyone else out there that wants you..."

"I know, I just- being _locked up_. All the time. For weeks. I don't think I can express in words how much I hate it."

Pedro sighed, staring down at the floor. "Cabin fever, yeah. I get it."

"We left the house today."

"Yeah, but I knew we wouldn't be out long. The set is different. You _know _how long I'm gone for. It's all day."

Din went to revert his attention back to the bird, but it had flown away. He felt a strange sort of sadness sink in his chest.

"After everything settles, then." Din stared up at Pedro. "Please."

He watched the gears turn in Pedro's head. He was biting his lip, and his eyebrows were furrowed.

After a moment, he took a deep breath. "Okay," he sighed. "Okay, after everything's settled. But you can't- you _really _can't freak out, you can't talk to anyone, you can't-"

"I know."

"I know you know. Just... making sure."

Pedro turned his head back towards the window.

"It'll be okay," he said. "Eventually. You know that, right?"

"Well. Most things in my life never turn out 'okay'."

"But it will be. One way or another."

"Yeah," Din hummed. "Sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friendly reminder that you're allowed to say it's not okay. You're allowed to say 'thank you' when someone apologises, and you're within your full right to not forgive them.
> 
> The crying scene was less about how Pedro was feeling, and more about Din's journey in how he deals with emotions. Aka: it was imperative to Din's development as a person that he have to deal with this sort of situation.
> 
> Also, I like writing angst.
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	22. mmmmmmmmmmmm

_25th Feb 2020_

There was no milk.

Pedro had stumbled down the stairs, tired, and unable to sleep. He thought he could grab a cup of coffee, stay up for a while watching television. He opened the fridge... but there was no milk.

He stood for a moment, holding the fridge door open, staring blankly at the space in front of him where there was usually milk.

Usually he'd buy a new carton when the previous one was half empty. But amongst everything... he must've forgotten.

He blinked. His eyelids felt heavy. He heaved a sigh, mumbling to himself.

"Is everything alright?"

Pedro jumped.

He hadn't noticed that the doctor was still in the room, sitting in silence as he hunched over his notepad.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "We're, um... out of milk."

Pershing shifted in his seat. "I see. You can't sleep?"

"Yeah. I mean... no, I can't," Pedro sighed. "I wanted some coffee."

"Wouldn't the caffeine just keep you awake longer?"

Pedro shrugged. "Yeah. But at least I can _feel _awake, rather than lie there being weighed down by endless fatigue yet unable to succumb to the blissful world of eternal darkness."

Pershing blinked. "...I see."

With a sigh, Pedro slammed the fridge door shut. He heard the rattle of various bottles as the fridge shook.

He spared a glance outside. It was dark, the sun had set long ago. The streets were completely silent except for the chirping of crickets echoing throughout the yard.

"Maybe I should get some milk," he wondered aloud.

"It's the middle of the night, though," said Pershing, just as he flipped to a new page of his notebook. It seemed his pages were running out. Pedro wondered how many books he'd gone through over the years.

"It'd just be a quick trip to a convenience store. I'm fuckin' tired, man... need'a wake up somehow."

A sudden idea popped into his head.

If Pedro knew anything about Din - which was a fair amount - it was that he was probably still awake, browsing the internet or staring into space. It's all he ever really did, especially after he found out that he'd joined Pershing in the "stranded-in-another-dimension" club.

The doctor was saying something, but Pedro didn't bother to listen. Instead, he turned towards the stairs and moved tiredly up them, using the railing to drag himself up.

He reached Din's door. He couldn't see any light coming from underneath it. Slowly, he turned the doorknob and peered inside.

Din was laying on the floor, his phone sitting on his chest as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

"Hey," Pedro whispered. "Din."

"Hmm?"

"Do you wanna go for a walk?"

Din's head turned to face him, eyebrows furrowed. "It's nearly three in the morning."

"Yeah, it'll be fun."

"Why do you want to go for a walk?"

Pedro pushed the door open all the way then leaned on the frame, crossing his arms over his chest. "We're out of milk."

"...okay?"

"And I want coffee."

"You want me to come with you to get milk."

"Yeah."

"So you can get coffee."

"It'll be fun."

Din sighed. He moved his head again to stare up at the ceiling. Then, after a moment, he heaved himself up onto his feet.

"Sure," he muttered. "Haven't got much else to do."

"Great! Great. Grab your jacket. Let's go."

He sighed again, leaning over to pick up his jacket from the bed and slipping it on over his shoulders. He grabbed the scarf and tied it around his face, then slid the sunglasses over his eyes. Finally, he brought the hood over his head, slipped on his shoes, and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Okay," he mumbled. "I'm ready. How long is the walk?"

"Depends how big your stride is. Come on."

Pedro descended back down into the living room, Din following close behind. Pershing had already fallen asleep on the couch, one hand folded over the open notebook resting on his chest while the other arm had fallen off the side.

Pedro opened the door, feeling a gust of cold night air flurry into the room. He shivered, wishing he'd put on more layers.

"You're still in your pyjamas," Din said. "Aren't you going to change?"

"Nah."

"...Right."

They stepped into the yard, the door shutting behind them with a click. Pedro breathed in the air, feeling it against his face. Even though it was cold, very cold, it was still refreshing. A bit biting, perhaps, but he'd live with it.

"So where are we going for your milk, then?" Din stepped onto the path, leaning on the fence gate. "It's not far, right?"

"Would it be a problem if it was?" Pedro followed him out of the yard, then began to make his way down the street, Din walking beside him. "You're used to traversing landscapes."

"...It's been a while."

"Best get back into it, then."

They walked through the streets in silence. The only sounds were the crickets, their footsteps, and the occasional passing car.

It had been a while since Pedro just _walked. _With everything that had been going, he hadn't found the time.

He spared a glance over at Din. With the sunglasses, it seemed like he was staring straight ahead, but Pedro could see his eyes moving back and forth, scanning their environment.

"Hey," Pedro nudged his shoulder. "Relax."

Din humphed. "You'll forgive me if I find that difficult."

"Sure. But you can at least try."

They fell into another silence. Din was still tense beside him. It could've been the cold air, or perhaps he was just on high-alert. His posture was stiff, and so were his steps.

"You cold?" Pedro asked.

"You're _not_?"

"Used to it."

"Well, I'm used to being regularly cooked inside a metal furnace, so yes. I'm cold. I feel like my hands are about to fall off."

Pedro glanced down at Din's hands, which were shoved securely in his pockets. Pedro held out his own.

Din stared at him for a moment, eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"Give me your hand."

"Why?"

"Mine are warm."

Din stopped walking. Pedro stopped as well, turning so that they were facing each other.

"You want me to hold your hand?"

"Why not?"

"It's... it's just that, I thought-... Well, I'm not sure what- I mean, in _my _universe- Pedro, I don't think hand-holding is very- look..."

Pedro watched, amused, as Din stumbled through his words, flushing red as he awkwardly waved his hands about as he tried to say what he wanted to say.

"I just think- I don't want people to- I don't really- what I'm trying to say, is that I'm not- I don't- you're not really, well- how do I say this? I-"

"Din," Pedro sighed.

Din dropped his hands to his side. "Pedro."

"I'm not flirting with you."

"Oh, thank _fuck._"

"Did you really think I was?"

Din grumbled some Mando'a under his breath. "Maybe."

"We have the same face."

"I _know, _but..."

" 'But' ?"

"...I wouldn't put it past you."

Pedro laughed, shaking his head. He returned to walking, shoving his hands back into his own pockets. He heard Din begin to follow shortly after.

"The offer still stands, though," Pedro hummed once Din was caught up.

"What if someone sees?"

Pedro glanced sideways at Din, raising one eyebrow. "So what if someone sees?"

"I know what the people here think about same-sex relationships. What if someone sees and gets the wrong idea?"

He shrugged. "That's their business."

"Well... Well, I'd still rather not risk your reputation."

"Suit yourself."

They fell back into silence. By the time either of them spoke, which was a while, the convenience store was already within sight. It was such a brilliant contrast against everything else. White, blinding. The only store that was still open so late at night.

"You can warm your hands up in here," Pedro teased.

Din sighed, shaking his head. "You're so annoying."

"You know you love me."

"No."

Pedro chuckled as he pushed open the doors. They were immediately met with a gush of warm air. The bell atop the door jingled.

There was no one else in the store except for the person at the counter, a young man who was too busy watching a movie on his phone to notice they'd come in.

Pedro made a beeline for the milk. He threw open the glass-door, reached inside, and grabbed a carton.

"I've never seen something more perfect in my life," he sighed wistfully, cradling the treasured carton. "Something so beautiful."

"It's just milk," Din chided.

"And milk can do many wonders."

"All you use it for is coffee. You don't even have it with your cereal."

"Cap'n Crunch doesn't _need _milk."

Din scrunched up his nose. "I don't understand why you like that."

"Are you _kidding_?"

"No? It's disgusting."

"_You're _disgusting."

Din sighed again, stepping away from the fridge. Pedro shut the door then began to take the milk up to the counter, then paused.

"Do you want anything? While we're here?"

"...Not particularly?"

"We should get you some food to try."

"I really don't need anything."

Pedro scoffed. "All you eat is cereal and apples."

"I eat dinner."

"But my cooking is subpar at best."

"That's not even _remotely _true."

"Oi!"

Pedro and Din both jumped. They turned towards the cashier, who was staring right at them with a scowl.

"You lovebirds gonna buy some'fink? Or you just gonna stand there and bicker?"

Din stilled. "We're not lo-"

"We can bicker as much as we like!"

"_Pedro_..."

"Now, Donovan, are you _sure _you don't want anything?"

Din stared for a moment, unblinking. It was a full few seconds before he seemed to remember what his alias was.

"I'm positive."

"Because I can-"

"Pedro."

"_Fine._"

Pedro sauntered up to the counter, mumbling something under his breath. He placed the milk-carton gently in front of him.

He reached into his pocket for his wallet, and-

Oh.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"I forgot my wallet."

Din groaned. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately."

Pedro checked his other pocket, even though he knew it wouldn't be there. He sighed.

"Di-Donovan, look, I'll run back-"

"What? No. I'm coming with you."

"I'll be fine. I've done this a hundred times, just-"

"Pedro, come on."

"You gotta guard the milk, man."

"The milk isn't going anywhere."

"I'll be quick!"

"_I'm not going to stay here alone._"

Pedro stared at him, unblinking. After a moment, he sighed softly. "Alright. Come on. Mr Cashier Man, we will be right back."

The cashier shrugged, turning back to his movie.

Pedro turned towards the door. He pushed it open, hearing the bell ring, then stepped into the cold night air again.

"Shit," he hissed. It had begun to lightly rain while they were indoors.

"Is the milk still worth it?" Din sighed.

"Milk is _always _worth it. I need my coffee."

He looked up at the sky, feeling the raindrops fall on his face. It was cold, but strangely, refreshing.

He turned to Din, who was pushing his back up against the wall, trying to stay out of the rain as much as possible.

"You sure you don't want to stay behind? Don't want your hands freezing off."

"Pedro, I don't... like _people_. I'm coming with you."

"Suit yourself. Last one there is a rotten egg!"

"I- what?"

But Pedro was already sprinting down the path, only very narrowly avoiding skidding on the wet concrete.

The rain pelted down on him, now. His hair was beginning to stick to his forehead. He blinked some raindrops away, only for more to fall into his eyes.

He laughed. It was muffled by the downpour, growing heavier by the second, but he felt it. In his chest.

"Pedro!" he hears Din call. "Pedro, wait!"

Din was next to him in an instant, running with perfect form. He'd torn his scarf off his face and was instead wearing it around his neck. It flapped wildly in the wind as they both picked up speed, and the rain grew heavier and heavier.

"Pedro! Why are you running?!" he yelled.

"It's a race!" Pedro yelled in return. He laughed again, despite the burning in his chest as he sprinted down the path. "And the last one there is a rotten egg!"

"That's stupid!"

"I know! Keep up!"

But to his dismay found that Din was already metres ahead, running faster than Pedro had ever gone in his entire life.

"Hey- hey, wait!" he hollered.

Din turned to look over his shoulder. Pedro nearly stopped in his tracks. He skidded for a moment, tried to regain his balance.

Din was grinning. Very clearly, genuinely smiling. "I thought it was a race!" he laughed. Then turned back and began to sprint even faster.

_Bastard!_

The rain pelted down on them as Pedro struggled to keep up. His feet slipped and slid on the concrete, and as the rain grew heavier his eyesight became steadily blurrier, with the water falling into his eyelashes. His chest burned, but he couldn't help but feel exhilarated.

And then, an idea. A dreadfully brilliant idea, not an _honourable_ one, but Pedro was having way too much fun to even care. He fell to the ground, arms flailing wildly.

"Aaahhh!" he wailed, submerging himself into the cold ground, legs sprawled out in weird angles.

He saw Din skid to a halt, turning back so violently that he'd almost lost his balance. He quickly arranged his face to one of agony as Din sprinted back to where he laid.

"_PEDRO!_ Are you alright?!"

Din's eyes were wide with panic as he scanned Pedro for injuries. "Are you hurt?" his voice trembling as he patted Pedro down for any bones that were out of place, or broken. Satisfied that Pedro was not grievously hurt, he reached out to pull Pedro up, hands still trembling slightly from the shock.

"Thank god you didn't fracture anything, I don't k-"

Seeing his chance, Pedro immediately sprinted off, the sound of his cackles rippling through foggy early morning rain.  
  


-

Din stood, dumbfounded. Until, he _realised_.

He watched as Pedro ran off, laughing wildly at his transient victory. It was only a few moments later that he found that his cheeks were hurting from the stupid grin that was on his face and rain on his face felt just a tad bit warmer.

After discovering his child had not come here with him, he never thought that the heavy feeling that had wormed its way into his heart would ever be gone. Every moment had been plagued with nightmares; they didn't care if he was asleep or not.

But just for a moment, just in _that _moment, it felt like there was something right in the world again; like the universe had decided to grant him a break, for once. He longed for this feeling to last just a little while more.

Din jogged lightly and caught up to Pedro in no time. His eyebrows furrowed once again when he realised Pedro's gait was unusual.

"Oh, shit, you're here already. Damn. I think I pulled something back there."

Din shook his head at Pedro's antics, the smile returning to his face. His pace fell in step with Pedro's. Being by his side meant that he could catch him if he fell - or, if he _actually _fell.

"You need to slow down if you don't want that to feel that tomorrow morning."

"Hey! _I'm_ not going to be the rotten egg. Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do!"

"Pedro, _please_. I don't even _care _about the stupid competition."

"Well, you're gonna be the rotten egg, then!"

Pedro tried to run faster, but the wince on his face indicated his body's disagreement.

"Ah, shit. I'm feeling it already. Go on then, guess I'm doomed to be the rotten egg."

"I'm not going ahead without you. You're the only one I care about."

Din froze, smile faltering slightly.

"I- I just don't want you to suffer because of me again."

At this, Din shrugged off his jacket and held it over the both of them, blocking out as much of the rain as he could. Pedro gave a watery smile, placing an arm over his shoulder to pull him closer.

"Let's run together then."

As they jogged back to the house, it seemed like the rain had it out for them. It was proving difficult to cover the both of them properly, so Din shifted the jacket away from him, shielding Pedro from the rain that was starting to feel like unforgiving tiny water bullets.

-

By the time they made it back to the house, the downpour was damn near hail.

Suddenly, Pedro found himself shrouded in darkness with something heavy weighing down on him, suddenly feeling cold once more. He heard laughter, and heavy footsteps splashing away from him. Lifting the jacket that Din had unceremoniously thrown over his head, Pedro saw him sprinting towards the house.

"I won!" Din yelled, standing up on the porch, his arms raised in the air.

"No!" Pedro leapt up the stairs, heaving and gasping for air.

"You forget that I've been training my whole life," Din winked. "I could outrun you any day!"

"Bullshit," Pedro gasped, "I demand a rematch!"

"Well, you can try again on the run back."

Pedro leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He grinned, turning to look out into the street. It was absolutely pouring. There was still rain running down his face, getting into his eyes, even under the cover of the porch.

"No, no... I'm too tired," he wheezed. "Too tired."

"But what about the milk?" Din joined him at the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Whatever. Tomorrow, I'll get it tomorrow. After the... the thing."

"The convention?"

"Yes."

Din hummed. "I almost forgot about it."

"Yeah."

Pedro had wanted to forget about it. He almost did. He shivered, hugging himself.

"We should go inside."

Din's voice pulled Pedro out of his thoughts before they had the opportunity to manifest. Taking his jacket hanging from Pedro's arm, he shook out the remnants of the rain clinging on to the surface, stretching over to drape it over Pedro's shoulders carefully.

"It's cold," he said. "You'll get sick."

"Right."

They remained like that for a moment, the heavy downpour slamming into the ground and the house the only indication that time was passing.

"Yeah, let's get indoors."

Pedro shuffled towards the door. He opened it slowly, hearing it creak. It was cold inside the house, now. He'd turned the heating off before he left.

Pedro made a beeline for the couch, collapsing onto it with a drawn-out sigh. "That was nice."

Din sat down next to him. "What was nice?" he asked.

"The race. It was fun."

Din was silent, but Pedro couldn't find the strength to turn and look at him.

"What's wrong?" he asked instead.

"...Nothing. _Nothing. _I'm fine. Really, genuinely. I'm fine."

"The way you say that tells me that you're not actually fine."

"That's just... that's the thing. I am fine. I feel fine. I'm... I felt happy, for a while there. I enjoyed the race. And the rain. And-"

He suddenly stopped, like the words got caught in his throat.

"And I laughed. And I was _happy_," he continued after a brief pause. His voice sounded nasal. Like it was at the back of his throat, and he was holding something back.

"I don't know why I'm crying," Din murmured.

Pedro rested his head on Din's shoulder. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.

"Not all tears have to be sad," he said.

"I'm just... I don't know what I'm feeling. I can't..."

"Put it into words?"

"No. No, not out loud."

"Try writing another note."

"Can I text you?"

"Sure."

He heard Din fish for his phone. Pedro reached over to the table where his laid. He stared at the black screen, waiting for the notification. He heard the keyboard as Din typed, and then, eventually, Pedro's phone lit up.

_I'm not upset, or sad. I'm not overthinking. I don't know how to describe what this feeling is. I want to call it dread, but dread is suffocating. I don't feel suffocated, but I don't feel at ease either. It's almost like I feel nothing and everything at the same time. Like tornadoes, the cold and hot air colliding and mixing together to create a hellscape of wind._

After a period of extended silence, his phone screen lit up again.

_I'm crying. And I don't understand why. I don't feel bad, necessarily, not in the way that I usually do. I don't feel particularly good either. In the rain - that was good. That was happy._

More silence, then,

_At least, I think it was. Maybe I feel happy now, too._

Pedro turned towards Din. He saw him wiping away a stray tear with the back of his hand.

"I'm not you," Pedro began, "So I might be wrong. But I think you are happy. Right now. Or, relieved."

"Relief," Din sighed. He sniffed. "That might be it." His eyes moved upwards to meet Pedro's but then immediately moved back down to his lap. "But why would I be relieved?"

"Din, do you want to talk to a psychologist?"

Din's gaze snapped back upwards, eyes wide. They stared into each other's eyes for a few seconds before Din appeared to physically wince and he hastily glanced away.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea. We have the same face. I don't want people to think..."

"I'll just say you're my brother. I mean, it's _basically _true, right?"

Din blinked. "Do you really mean that?"

Pedro tilted his head.

"I mean- you said... you said I was like a brother to you."

"I did."

"Do you really mean that?"

Pedro reached out and grabbed Din's hand.

At the beginning of everything, Din's hands were calloused and rough. They had bruises and scars. But now, they were soft. They'd healed.

"Of course I mean it. I wouldn't say something like that if it wasn't true."

There was a moment of silence. Pedro ran his thumb over Din's hand absentmindedly. He counted the scars that lined his fingers. They were no more than raised lines, but each one told some sort of story.

Their lives were so different. All you had to do was compare their hands and you would see they each had their own stories to tell. Not the same person. Separate human beings.

A drop of water landed on his thumb. Pedro stared at it, eyebrows furrowed. He glanced up, expecting to find some sort of leak in the roof, but only found Din with his eyes scrunched as tears rolled down his face.

"...Din?"

"I'm sorry, I-"

"Is something wrong?"

"No_-_"

"Why are you crying?"

"I just-"

Din tore his hands away from Pedro. He rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face into his palms.

He breathed a shaky broken breath. Hiccuped. Shook.

"Din? Why are you crying?"

"Nothing's wrong. Nothing's wrong."

"But why are you crying?"

"I'm fine."

"I _get _that, but why are you crying?"

Din suddenly shot up from his position, and before Pedro could process what was happening, the Mandalorian's arms were around him, his head buried in his neck as he sobbed.

They stayed like that. For a while.

A long while.

Din was shaking. He was clutching Pedro's shoulders so hard that his fingernails dug into his skin, but Pedro couldn't find the heart to tell him to let go. Instead, he hugged Din closer, and desperately tried to hold back his own tears.

"You're happy, right?"

"Yeah," came Din's muffled response. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Just... you're sure?"

"_Yeah._"

"Okay."

He sniffed. "Thank you."

"For what?"

Din suddenly pulled back, and Pedro could see the redness surrounding his eyes.

"Everything," he breathed. "You didn't have to do _any _of this. You're sacrificing your entire life. You could have taken one look at me and sent me away. But you didn't, you _didn't, _and you weren't even sure if you believed me."

Suddenly he furrowed his eyebrows. "Why did you let me stay with you?"

Pedro sighed wistfully. "You looked so desperate."

"I could've been pretending."

"No. It felt different. I've been acting for... god, twenty-four years? So I know, I just _know, _you know?"

"Twenty-four years," Din sniffed. He reached up to wipe his eyes. "This really is your life."

"Yeah," Pedro hummed. "It is."

He leaned his head on the back of the couch and stared up at the ceiling.

_Twenty-four years._

Was that really how long it'd been?

_God._

_I'm old._

"How did you get the role?"

"Hmm?"

He turned back to Din, who was staring down at his feet.

"How did you get the role for the show? Did you audition?"

Pedro sighed fondly. "Jon offered it to me, actually." He smiled. "My agent called me up and said that Jon Favreau wanted to talk to me about "something Star Wars". I didn't know who he wanted me to play at the time, so when he told me I'd be playing the starring role I think I nearly cried."

He thought back to the small little room he was brought into. Covered wall to wall in so many illustrations, gorgeous concept art. He couldn't believe it. Any of it, at the time. And to think _that _was fantastical.

_"You're the Mandalorian," _Jon had said.

Three words with the power to change an entire life.

What if it had been someone else sitting in that role? How much would be different? What would he be doing, without Din?

Sitting in his New York house. Scrolling through twitter, or staring out a window. Cooking, maybe.

Dull.

He couldn't even imagine living without Din anymore.

Damn. That said a lot. It had only been two months.

"You know," he sighed. "I really am glad you're here." He turned to look at Din. "Even if it doesn't seem like it sometimes."

Din scoffed. "I drive you up the wall."

"Damn fucking right you do," Pedro chuckled. "God, you're insane. But I'm insane too, so."

"We're all insane."

"Yeah."

Pedro stretched over Din and rolled his head to the side. It met Din's shoulder, his arm draped over the other. " 'M tired," he murmured.

"It's late."

"Yeah..." Pedro closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Yeah."

He willed his body to move, get up from the couch and go back to bed, but found that he was too tired to do much of anything at all.

"Your shoulder has no right being this comfortable," he murmured.

"Technically it's your shoulder."

"Mm. Shut up."

So they stayed there, neither of them daring to move, and too tired to even bother trying. And neither of them were going to complain, either.

Not if it meant they could both get some rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, no one DIED this time!  
the people in the server requested a fluffier chapter so here it is
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)


	23. Ghg.

**Trigger warning** **: Panic attack. An asterisk will be placed before and after a potentially upsetting scene. **

25th Feb 2020

He woke up on the couch.

Pedro wasn't next to him, anymore. Rather, he was talking in hushed tones with the doctor over at the dining table, slaving over a sheet of paper.

Din squinted. Half-asleep, and tired as hell. He went to rub his eyes with his fists, only to find that he was wrapped up in a blue quilt.

"What time is it?" he croaked.

Pedro glanced over at him. His glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose. "It's midday. I didn't want to wake you."

Din groaned, untangling himself from the quilt. He heard Edgar whine and glanced down at his feet hanging off the armrests to find the dog was laying between them, curled into a ball.

"Hi dog," Din sighed.

Edgar whined again, resting his head on Din's leg, as if to say,  _ don't move, I'm comfortable! _

"I gotta get up." 

But the dog didn't budge.

"I'm getting up."

He moved his legs again, and Edgar jumped off of the couch, landing on the floor with a thud. He glared up at Din.

"Sorry, dog."

He wasn't very sorry, really. 

Din stood from the couch, stretching his arms up over his head. He felt a few joints pop and he winced. 

"The convention is today," Pedro said. "I think we should leave for it soon."

Din turned to look at the clock. "When is it?" he mumbled.

"Starts in about an hour. It goes until six." 

The clock read 12:06.

He found himself wishing Pedro had woken him up, after all. He'd wanted to delay going to the convention as much as possible. Since, well…

He knew he'd just be disappointed, in the end. Nothing was ever that simple.

Why would it be that simple?

Din sighed. He trudged over to the fridge, pulling the door open.

"You got milk," he said.

"Earlier today, yes," Pedro replied. 

He grabbed the carton out of the fridge and plunked it on the counter. He grabbed a bowl from the drawer then some cereal from the cupboard.

Din grabbed his bowl of cereal and took it to the table. He sat immediately across from the doctor, who appeared to physically shy away. 

Din tried to read the doctor's writings upside down, but it was written in a foreign language he didn't recognise.

So instead Din shovelled a spoonful of cereal and glared intently out one of the windows. 

** _*_ **

Pedro and Pershing were talking to each other now. But he couldn't focus on what they were saying.

There were birds outside. They squawked at each other. The baby birds squawked for food. The mother would pick a worm out of the ground and feed it to the babies. The babies would eat it then squawk more. Then more. The process repeated.

_ What's happening? _

The TV was running on a low volume. He hadn't noticed it before. A tired reporter was recounting some current events on the news. Din tried to focus on it. Read it. But it was just noise. Just more noise. Just more  _ sounds. _

Then there was a lawn-mower. He could hear it, distantly, in the background. Driving over grass. Slicing. A low suffocating rumble.

The dishwasher was running. It hummed. He could hear the water inside of it. 

Edgar was pawing at Pedro's leg. Whining. Pershing was taking notes in his book, the pencil scratched at the paper. Pedro was talking.

Din felt hot.

He let his spoon fall into his bowl. It clanged. He yanked it out before the sound could begin resonating in his skull.

_ Sounds. Still invading; engulfing him. _

Shut up.  _ Shut up. _

Too many sounds.  _ Take your turn. _

He gripped the side of the table. His knuckles were turning white.

_ I can't breathe. _

Except he could. He knew he could, he was breathing, then and there. But he still- he  _ still- _

_ Too many sounds. Too loud. _

_ Shut up. Shut up. _

Neither of them were paying attention to him. He needed- he  _ needed  _ someone.

Please.  _ Look at me. Why can't you-? Are you blind? I need help. Please. _

He stared at the spoon in his hand, his warped reflection caught in it. 

_ I look fine. _

_ But I'm not fine. _

His hands shook as he picked up the bowl. His legs wobbled as he walked over to the sink. He watched as he slowly tilted the bowl, watched all the milk flow out, hitting the bottom of the sink and disappearing into the drain.

Pedro and Pershing were still talking. He didn't know what about. He didn't care. He just placed the bowl gently in the sink then began to march towards the stairs. Stiff, and mechanical.

No one noticed. He just walked upstairs. Into his bedroom. Sat on the bed. Like he was on autopilot.

He laid down. Stared up at the ceiling.

_ I feel like I'm going insane. _

His heart raced. It pounded, like drums. It's all he could hear. Pounding, pounding, pounding, pounding, pounding,  _ pounding. _

_ I can't breathe. _

_ Someone please help. _

_ I'm dying. _

*****

He turned his head. The pillow was soft against his skin. He took a deep breath. Closed his eyes.

_ You've dealt with this before. A hundred times. _

_ It's fine. _

_ You're fine. _

_ You're fine. _

  
  


-

  
  


"I think he fell asleep."

"Oh."

Pedro stared at the dishevelled figure on the bed. Din was sprawled amongst the blankets, breathing deeply. He watched the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Pedro sighed. "He doesn't get enough rest."

"I saw him leave earlier," said Pershing. "But he didn't look particularly tired."

"He's probably exhausted."

Pedro walked to the side of the bed and peered down at Din. His hair looked like a bird's nest, covering half his face and sticking up in all directions. He hadn't looked like that earlier.

"Din," he muttered, leaning down to shake him. "Din, wake up."

His eyes cracked open. "Mnwhat?" he slurred.

"It's time to go."

"Five mor'minutes."

"We're going to be late."

"Ghg."

And then he fell back asleep.

" _ Din, _ " Pedro sighed. "Wake  _ up. _ " He shook him again. "Din."

"Ssstop."

"We need to go."

Din's eyes opened again, and he squinted up at Pedro, frowning.

" 'm tired."

"I know. But we have to go. You can sleep again later."

Din released a deep brilliant sigh, then began to hoist himself off the bed.

"Fine," he muttered.

-

The car ride was long and awkward.

Din was still half-asleep. He must've been incredibly exhausted, but- he'd looked fine earlier. More than fine, really. And he'd just woken up as well.

Well. Sleep deprivation does things to you.

Din looked distant, now. His eyes were glazed over. If Pedro didn't know any better he'd think he'd taken some form of drug.

By the time they pulled up to the convention centre, Din had almost fallen asleep again. Pedro leaned over to tap him on the shoulder and he jumped.

"Are we here?" he asked. Even with the sunglasses, Pedro could see his eyes squinting, as though his sight was blurred.

"We just arrived. Think you can wake yourself up?"

"Um."

Pedro heard Pershing unbuckle his seatbelt.

"I'm... I'm... yes. Yeah. I can."

Pedro sighed, unconvinced. But he pushed open the door regardless, stepping out into the open. He subconsciously pulled his cap lower over his forehead. Didn't much feel like being recognised.

Din was by his side soon enough. Still seemingly dazed, but able to walk properly.

Being back at the convention centre felt like he'd just travelled back in time. He remembered vividly; leaving with Din in tow, worrying to himself that he'd just invited a  _ murderer _ to stay with him. 

Din seemed to bring out the impulsiveness in people.

"I suppose we should go in, then."

Pedro turned to Pershing, holding out his hand. The doctor handed him the backpack. Pedro handed the backpack to Din. 

"Everything you own is in that backpack. Don't lose it."

"Wasn't planning on it," Din mumbled.

"Okay."

Pedro went through the plan in his head.

They'd enter the convention. Din would try and remember where he appeared. They would go there, and explore the area, somehow not looking suspicious in the process. Then... well. Only time would tell. 

Pedro took the first step towards the building, and after that, it was only one after the other, like he was on autopilot. Before long all three of them were past the security and standing amongst a wide selection of furniture and home appliances.

It wasn't crowded. Good.

Pedro turned to Din. He was looking about the same as he did before. Distant. Not quite present. Pedro wondered what was going through his mind.

"We should start somewhere," Pedro sighed. "Any ideas?"

Din only shook his head.

"Okay."

It was going to be a long day. 

  
  


-

  
  


He couldn't think.

No matter how much he tried. His thoughts were so jumbled, like a puzzle, but there were pieces missing. Like someone took a chunk out of his brain, moved it around, then shoved it back in the wrong place. 

_ I'm more tired than I thought.  _

He sighed to himself.

_ But every time I try to sleep I wake up shivering in a cold sweat. _

He walked mindlessly, putting one foot in front of the other.

_ Sleeping only makes everything feel worse. _

Something hard caught his foot, the sharp pain jolting him into the present. He stared at it. Something in his brain registered familiarity.

“Did you find something?”

Pedro had reappeared in front of Din. His brows were furrowed, but his eyes had widened slightly. 

“Yeah, I recognise this, but…” 

_ Oh.  _

He was staring at Pedro’s old sofa. 

“No, it’s just... this reminds me of your other house.”

The white sofas - there were two of them - were placed at an angle from one another. Some plump purple cushions were placed in a corner against the armrests, just the way Pedro liked them.

The cushions reminded him of movie night.

Pedro had dragged him out of his room that night when he came back from work, a bag of pastries in his hand. Din had sat stiffly on the couch, grouchy that Pedro had interrupted his research. The flat screen that hung from the wall only reminded him of that bad decision he made of watching the past few months of his life and realising that it was nothing but  _ entertainment. _

As a peace offering, Pedro had offered one of the purple cushions to Din, instead of hogging both, which he claimed to do whenever he watched a movie.  _ “Trust me, you’ll want a cushion. Coco made me cry more times than I’d like to admit.”  _

Din had refused then, stubbornly insisting that he would not cry because of a  _ cartoon _ . He was a  _ Mandalorian _ for god's sake.

_ “Well, I'm gonna just leave this here for you in case you need it,” _ Pedro had said as he placed the cushion in the space between them.

He’d missed them more than he realised.

“Look, they’ve even got your favourite cushions.”

Pedro too was looking fondly at them. 

“Yeah! Have I ever told you purple’s my favourite colour?”

Din looked up from the sofa and saw Pedro had picked up one of the cushions and was appraising it. It was only then, under the bright light of the convention centre, that he realised that Pedro’s sneakers, the ones that he’d always thought were black, were in fact a dark purple.  _ Huh. _

Din turned away before Pedro could catch him staring and noticed the white marble coffee table that placed a comfortable distance between sofas. 

That night, Pedro had placed a bowl on the coffee table as he emptied the bag of brownies into it. “ _ I bought these for us to share during the movie, _ ” Pedro had commented as he scrolled through Disney+ searching for the movie.

“ _ Ah, this is the best brownie in the world, _ ” he had mumbled between bites. “ _ Din, you have to try this. If you don’t start eating soon, I’m gonna finish it all. _ ”

So he picked up a piece and bit into it slowly. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted. And he had Pedro’s cooking for dinner. Almost every night. He could almost taste it, the richness of the chocolate, the way it crumbled with each bite and- and the  _ best part _ ? Hints of almonds when he bit into the slightly harder parts in the brownie. The heavenly combination of flavours was one he’ll never forget.

After living on stale rations for so long, he knew that every taste that he’d experienced in the past weeks would join that special place in his memory, where the plethora of Mandalorian spices he missed so much resided. It was one of the few pleasant things he would treasure even after returning to his universe. 

He remembered relaxing a little, stretching his feet, the feeling of the soft carpet…

The carpet.  _ No. _

He had lain on it when brainstorming for ideas with Pedro. They’d gone over it so many times.

_ Nevarro. The child on his lap. On the Crest.  _

The doorbell had rung. He scrambled to his bedroom.

_ They were safe. They’d escaped the Empire. Or so he thought. _

His ears rung, the gunshot echoing in his head. It was the only thing he could hear.

_ And then the bright light.  _

The carpet, purple too, was stained red. He’d felt it, it was soaked. Blood, so much blood, too much of it.

_ Then the pillar. People. So many people. _

“We need to keep searching.”

He knew Pedro was saying something, but he had to keep walking. Anywhere, as long as it was away from the sofas and the fucking carpet.

He couldn’t recognise anything around him. At the beginning of it all, he was far too disoriented and afraid to even begin taking in the surroundings. He just remembered appearing, then suddenly being in other places.

Maybe if it had been decorated the same way, he might've been able to remember. But it was a different convention. Nothing looked the same. There was furniture. That's all he could register. Each and every pillar looked exactly the  _ same.  _

They had passed the food court multiple times. Gone through it, around it. They were walking in any direction they could find, no one daring to speak, no one making a sound except for Pedro's exasperated sighs every time they met an essentially dead-end.

At some point, they stopped at a table and sat down. Din wasn't even sure he remembered when, just that all three of them had been there for some time, sitting in very uncomfortable silence.

It was more crowded than since they first arrived. More and more people were beginning to pour in and, after an hour, it was almost becoming too much to handle. Too many sounds, too many conversations all happening at once. Din covered his ears with his hands.

"I don't know where we go from here."

Pedro was speaking, but Din didn't pay any attention. He glared at another table that sat a few away from theirs. It wasn't occupied by anyone, but there were remnants of a meal leftover from when someone abandoned it.

He closed his eyes. Drowning out the world, any conversations. If he tried hard enough, he could focus on only his thoughts.

All at once, his eyes shot open. He stood so abruptly that the chair he had been sitting on fell over with a screech.

"Din?"

He stormed to the table, not letting it out of his sight. Very quickly he appeared at it, glaring down at the unoccupied seat. 

"This is where I sat last time," he mumbled, not knowing if anyone heard him or not.

"Din? Are you okay?"

"This is where I sat last time," he repeated louder. "I remember. It was the only table that wasn't taken. You sat opposite me."

"...Okay. So?"

"So I can find my way from here."

He peered around the room. He took sight of an entrance on a far end.

"I can find where I appeared from here."

Without another word, he tore through the room, zig-zagging his way around tables and not bothering to check if anyone was actually following him. He found his way to the entrance, pushing past the crowd of people, keeping his hood covering his face as much as possible. He took a hard left, then walked in a straight line until he found a glimpse of what he was looking for.

The stage, where that panel was held. In its place was now a spacious living area with myriads of furniture and matching carpet designs. But he could find his way. 

He reached the stage. Found the spot he had stood at, on that day. Then turned.

He heard someone huffing. When he turned to look, it was Pedro, out of breath and frowning.

"Could've, I dunno, given me a headstart?"

"No."

"Yep. Great."

Din scanned the area. He could think clearer now. He could think,  _ maybe, maybe it'll work. Maybe there's hope. _

He clutched the straps of his backpack and walked as fast as he could down the route he recalled from before. He recalled the young boy taking him to the panel. He remembered, he remembered… 

The pillar.

He stopped, very suddenly. He heard Pedro's sneakers squeak as he halted in his tracks.

"Here," Din said. "This one."

It was perfectly clear, now. He remembered it all vividly.

He turned to face Pedro just as the doctor joined his side.

"This pillar."

"Okay," Pedro whispered. "Okay. Um..."

Silence, then...

"What now?"

Pershing sighed. "We wait. Not much else we can do."

So they waited.

They waited.

And they waited.

Din's heart was racing. So were his thoughts - he couldn't understand them, couldn't even begin to, but they were racing, he couldn't focus on anything else. Something in his chest was telling him,  _ this will work. It will work. Everything will be okay. You can go home. To ad'ika. _

_ It'll be okay. _

_ Everything will be okay. _

They waited. And waited.

_ It'll work. You just have to wait. _

_ Just wait. _

_ Just wait. _

_ A little longer. _

_ A little while longer. _

_ Just wait. _

"Din?"

_ A little while longer. _

"It's been four hours. I think we should go."

_ Wait. _

Din turned towards the voice. Pedro was staring. His expression was warped into pity. Pershing stood awkwardly beside him. Not daring to spare even a glance.  _ He knew, didn’t he? _

"Um," he croaked.  _ Um.  _ "Yeah."

_ No. We need to wait. _

Pedro approached. Din felt the powerful urge to step away.

"Are you okay?"

Fine.  _ I'm fine. _

"Where, um..."  _ um.  _ Words. "Where’s the refresher?"

_ Just a little while longer. This will work. I can go home. _

"Oh. It’s... not far. Around the corner. Are-?"

"I'll be right back."

_ Just wait. Please. A little while longer. _

Din was already power-walking away before Pedro even had the chance to respond.

He kept his eyes straight. Scanned his environment. Caught sight of the refresher, and ducked into it.

No one was occupying any of the stalls. He was alone.

_ If I just wait. _

Din turned to the mirror.

He looked fine. Completely fine.

Removed the sunglasses. Then the scarf. The hoodie. Ripped off the beanie. Placed them carefully on the counter.

_ It'll work. Eventually. I can go home. _

Stared in the mirror.

He looked fine.

Tired. Pale. But fine.

_ A few more minutes. It will work. _

He leaned in. He could see the scars littering his face. Pale and pink. One ran over his cheek all the way down to his jaw. Another sat across his nose. Three on his forehead. Another five on his jaw.

If he felt at the back, he could still feel the scarring from the injury on Nevarro.

_ A little while longer. _

He pulled off his gloves. Observed the scars on them. Rolled up his sleeves and stared at those. He had so many scars. From so many fights. Childhood wrestling, Mandalorian training, bounties who put up a fight.

He stared back up at the mirror. His reflection stared right back.

_ A little while longer. _

Haunted. Dazed. So tired. So tired. So tired.  _ So tired. _

All the time. 

*****

Something rose in the back of his throat. He swallowed. Tried to push it down. But it persisted, and he felt it in his chest. Tightening. A chill up his spine and the hairs on his arms standing on end.

_ You're never going home. _

He took a deep breath.

There was dread. His throat was dry, his mouth. Sore. His chest hurt. He felt  _ sick.  _ And hot. And his heart thundered.

His expression was morphed, and it was stretched. He didn't know if any sounds were coming out. He just knew he looked like he was screaming. He knew he was there for a very long time. He knew he was out of breath, he knew he  _ couldn't _ breathe, and he knew that, by the end, he was on the floor and his throat burned and he could no longer make any sound at all.

He knew that he was hyperventilating. That the world was spinning. He was shaking, he couldn't sit upright. His stomach was churning and bile was at the back of his throat but all he could do was lie on the floor and clutch at the only remaining sanity he had left.

He scrambled- he  _ tried  _ to scramble - to his knees, but the world spun, and he dry-heaved. The patterned tiling merged into one. It tilted, spun, like a hurricane, everything that came before was only the eye, and now he was feeling the brunt of the storm.

He threw up. There was a bang, the door slamming open,  _ a deafening sound _ , and then someone else's arms were clutching his torso, muttering words he couldn't grasp. 

And then, there was black.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops!
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	24. Woohoo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You were the song that I'd always sing  
You were the light that the fire would bring  
But I can't shake this feeling that I was only  
Pushing the spear into your side again_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe last week's update got drowned out, so if you haven't read 23, do that FIRST. seriously.

**TRIGGER WARNING: ASTERISKS ARE PLACED BEFORE AND AFTER POTENTIALLY UPSETTING SCENES OR DIALOGUE. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.**

**I've said it before and I'll say it again: Pedro is a person. He should be treated like a person. This story is set in an alternate reality - aka, ** ** _not our Pedro. _ ** **I'd just like to make that very clear moving forward. **

**I should be held fully accountable for any and all discomfort you experience in this and upcoming chapters.**

* * *

There was something on his forehead.

Cloth. Cold. Wet. A wet cloth.

There was a wet cloth on his forehead.

He opened his eyes and there was darkness.

Just darkness. He could feel the bed. It was comfortable. It was warm.

He turned his head. Could see the floor. There was a bucket. A towel.

His head struggled with the movement. It was too much. Everything hurt.

Nausea. 

He felt sick.

He felt so sick.

He felt so so sick.

*****

It hit him all at once. Like a wave. He fell out of the bed, landing on the floor with a deafening thud. Was barely able to lean over the bucket before the nausea got the best of him and he threw up. His throat felt like relit ember.

He heaved a second time, but nothing happened. He coughed, gagged, then coughed again.

"Fuck," he winced. "Fuck. Fucking fuck."

_ Fuck,  _ how long had it been? How long was he passed out? He couldn't remember... couldn't remember...

_ What happened? _

There was... there was cold, the tiles, dread. Screaming. He screamed.

_ Fuck. _

"Fuck."

_ What’s wrong with my voice? _

"Din?"

Din spat saliva into the bucket. His mouth tasted of vomit.

*****

"Din?"

He let the silence stretch on. Stared at the mess in the bucket.  _ Gross. _

"Din?"

He sighed. Pushed down another wave of nausea.

_ This is what I get.  _

"Answer me. Please."

Din landed a shaky hand on the side of the bed. He used it to push himself up off the ground. Swayed, for a moment.

He turned to face Pedro.

“……home,” he croaked.

His throat burned.

"I'm never going home," he repeated.

Pedro only stared. Din couldn't make out his facial expression in the darkness.

"I'm sorry."

But he could tell from the voice that he'd been crying. 

"How long……been asleep?"

"I don't... know. I stopped... I haven't left. This room. Really. Much. Two days?" Pedro took a shaky breath. "You kept getting up to puke. But you were never really awake. I'm assuming you don't remember." 

Din didn't respond. Only sighed and shook his head.

"Yeah," Pedro murmured.

Din's eyes began to adjust to the darkness. He could vaguely see the outline of Pedro's face. His hair was stood in all directions. Stubble was just that little bit more ragged.

"Where's the doctor?" Din found himself saying.

"Downstairs. Probably. Or in his room. I haven't seen him since yesterday. Or... I don't know."

Another wave of nausea overtook him. He inhaled sharply.

"What about your job?" he asked when he was sure it was safe.

"Taking some time off. You're more important."

Din felt his chest tighten. He decided not to say anything.

*****

It was a good thing he didn't. He spun around quickly, falling to his knees and almost missing the bucket as he retched into it.

He spluttered, spitting out more saliva. Then retched again.

"I can't- I can't fucking-"  _ breathe. I can't breathe. _

"It's okay. You're fine." There was a hand on his back. "Better out than in."

"Fuck off," Din spluttered.

But Pedro did not fuck off. He only continued to run his hand up and down Din's back.

He sat there for a few minutes, Pedro's hand resting on his back. He took deep breaths, trying to ignore the sour taste in his mouth.

He coughed, then spat out more saliva.

*****

He swallowed slowly, the searing pain in his throat subsiding by the slightest bit.

"I feel better," he croaked.

"Do you want to get something to eat?"

Din looked up at the digital clock by his bedside. It read 11 in the morning.

"Sure. Yeah. I'll... I need a moment. Be down in a minute."

"Okay."

Pedro's hand came off his back, and Din felt himself immediately missing the contact. He heard him leave the room, the door closing behind him. Listened to the soft thuds of footsteps as he went down the staircase. 

Slowly, Din pushed himself up off the floor. He hadn't noticed earlier but he was feeling very hungry.  _ Two days, passed out. _

Well. He'd gone longer without eating. 

When he was sure no more nausea would suddenly overwhelm him, Din stepped out of his room and into the rest of the house. He squinted, the light momentarily blinding him as he brought a hand up to cover his eyes. 

"Welcome to the land of the living," Pedro called from below. "We have apples." He held up a bowl of fresh fruit.

"Woohoo."

Din landed at the bottom of the staircase and, as he did, the doctor appeared suddenly in his field of view. They both yelped, and the doctor stumbled backwards, clutching a notebook to his chest.

"Sorry!" he cried, "Sorry! I didn't see!"

"It's... fine."

The doctor nodded, then awkwardly moved to shuffle past him, up the stairs and around the corner, his head held low.

"Why is he like that?" Din asked no-one in particular.

"Just how he is. D'you want an apple?"

Din turned back to Pedro, who was still holding out the bowl of assorted fruits.

"I thought you said you didn't leave my room much."

Pedro smiled softly. "Yeah. Pershing went out and grabbed some food for me."

Din narrowed his eyes. He glared at the bowl of fruit.

"Oh, come on. It's not like he poisoned it."

"He could have."

"Are you serious?"

"You never know."

"He just apologised for  _ nearly  _ bumping into you. He's not going to poison some fruit."

Slowly, Din reached out and picked an apple off the top of the pile. He peeled off the sticker and stuck it on the back of his hand.

He took a small bite, the apple providing immediate relief from the vile taste in his mouth.

"Is it poisoned?"

"...No."

"There we have it."

Pedro placed the bowl on the kitchen counter. His expression suddenly became very serious.

"How do you feel?" he asked softly.

Din nibbled on the apple. "Fine."

"Don't lie to me."

Din flushed and ducked his head. "I don't want to be a burden."

"I've been sitting by your side in total darkness for two days straight. It's not going to get any worse."

Din glared at the floor.  _ This is your fault. _

_ Just talk. Why can't you talk? _

_ Say something. _

_ He's expecting you to say something, just say something. _

_ God, I miss my fucking helmet. _

"Din? Do you think I'm angry?"

_ I feel like a child. _

"Din?"

_ Why can't you respond? _

A hand grabbed his arm. He jumped, alarm bells sounding off in his mind as his gaze snapped upward. He found himself looking straight into Pedro's eyes.  _ When did he get so close? _

"Snap out of it."

Din turned his eyes away and focused instead on the wall. "Sorry."

"I wish you would talk to me."

"So do I."

Pedro stepped backwards, letting go of Din's arm. He seemed to contemplate something. He shoved his hands into his pockets. 

"Okay," he began. "Okay... okay. Let's try this."

He took more steps backwards until he was nearly touching the wall behind him.

"I have an idea," he said. "I guess what you're feeling. If I guess correctly, you take a step forward. If I guess wrong, you take a step back. If you reach the stairs, you can leave."

_ Interesting. _

"Does that sound okay?"

Din bit his lip.  _ If it works...  _ "Sure."

"Okay."

They stood in silence for a moment. Din crossed his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the stare that Pedro was giving him. 

"You feel nauseous right now," he eventually said.

Din took a slow step backwards and Pedro nodded.

"Okay. You feel scared that you're never going back home."

Who wouldn't? Who wouldn't be? Proclamations of being  _ fine  _ and feeling  _ fine  _ wouldn't change anything - he was  _ terrified. _ Din took a step forward.

"You're worried about the kid."

_ Is that even a question?  _ He could be dead.  _ He could be dead. The fuel in my ship isn't supposed to last two months.  _

The child would starve to death. Or freeze.

He took a step forward.

"You can't stop thinking about him."

Another step forward.  _ Everything is a reminder. I see him when I close my eyes. In my sleep. _

"You're still having nightmares."

Din hesitated. Then took a step forward.

"What are they about?" Pedro asked. Din only shook his head.  _ That's not part of the game. _

"Okay, then. You think something is wrong with you."

Din thought for a moment. He glared down at the floor. Sighed. Took a step forward. 

He was getting very close to Pedro now.  _ What happens if we run out of room? _

"You don't feel sad. You feel empty."

Hesitation. Then a step backward.  _ I used to be empty. Before the child, and any of this. Not anymore. _

"You have anxiety attacks when I'm not home."

_ Oh, fuck off.  _ He took a resigned step forward.

"You cry more often than you let on."

_ I'll start crying now if you're not fucking careful.  _ He took a step forward. Pedro was nearly within an arm's reach. 

"You're scared of me."

Din met Pedro's eyes then hastily glanced away. He took a very slow step forward. An unknown emotion flashed on Pedro's face and he swallowed.

"You're scared of Ivana and Christopher."

*****

Din scoffed.  _ They're idiots. Have you seen them?  _ He took a step back.

"You're suicidal."

Din's breath hitched. He took a hasty step backwards. "No," he said firmly. "No."

Pedro visibly relaxed. His shoulders slumped in relief. "Okay," he breathed.

"I would tell you if I was."

*****

Pedro opened his mouth to respond, but as he did so, Pershing appeared at the top of the stairway, looking even more miserable than he had previously. Din glared up at him. 

"Um," the doctor began, speaking so quietly that Din had to strain his ears. "So sorry to interrupt- but... but I received a message from Christopher." He held up a small comm device which was blinking a bright red.

Din and Pedro shared a wary glance.

"I thought you might want to hear it," the doctor murmured.

Pedro sighed, then nodded his head, gesturing for Pershing to come downstairs. Din watched with disdain as the doctor came down to the first floor and awkwardly shuffled by.

He bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself from talking. He walked slowly towards the couches but didn't sit down alongside Pedro and Pershing. Instead, he stood idly by, hand subconsciously resting where his blaster would usually sit in its holster. The throbbing in his head returned.

The doctor placed the blinking device down on the coffee table. He pressed a button on its side, and a static-y noise filled the room, along with a thick British accent.

_ "Doctor,"  _ the recording began. Din felt a chill immediately run down his spine. Strange how someone with such a deep voice could sound so cold.

_ "I know you're with the actor and the Mandalorian. You probably don't want anything to do with us. Or me, specifically. But Ivana found something." _

There was a loud burst of static that almost sounded like a sigh.

_ "Someone else from our universe." _

Din swallowed.

_ “She was... a family friend." _

A pause. More static.

_ "I'm assuming you'll want to meet with her. She's nothing special, but... more the merrier, right?" _

There was a different voice in the background. Din tried to make out the words but they were in a different language. Christopher responded back in the same foreign tongue.

_ "Ivana says it's probably best we bring her to you,"  _ he sighed.  _ "Unfortunately, she's right. I'd like permission from Mr Pascal to pay a visit." _

Din spared a glance over at Pedro. He was scowling.

_ "That's all. Talk later, doctor." _

The static ended abruptly. The device stopped blinking. Pershing reached over to pick up the device and shoved it back in his pocket.

Pedro was turning a violent shade of red. His hands were balled into tight fists.

Then, he took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. "Okay," he said simply. "Let them."

"What?" Din hissed. "You can't."

"Din, what other options do we have?"

"He- he shot you!"

Pedro mumbled something in Spanish. Then sighed. "We can't just sit here and expect the problem to solve itself. If you want to go home, then you need to fucking cooperate with other people."

Pedro was glaring at him. Din forced himself to look in the man's eyes, but after only a moment, it became too much and he hastily glanced away.

He turned on his heel and marched to the stairway, where he then stomped back up to his room, slamming his door behind him so hard that it shook.

He stood in his room for a moment. Glared at the bed. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and his face felt hot.

His phone lay at the bottom of the bed.

_ I don't want to fucking talk to them.  _

He snatched it off of the bed and hurled it at the wall. It collided with a sickening thud.

_ I don't want to fucking talk to them! _

Tears had begun to stream down his face.

_ I hate this shit. _

He didn't bother to wipe them away as he crawled onto his bed. The tears continued to fall even as he rested his head on the pillow. They began to soak into the pillow. His eyes stung, and every moment that passed just felt more and more suffocatingly lonely.

At one point the silent tears turned into violent sobbing. And he couldn't stop, he couldn't get it to  _ stop,  _ he bit his tongue, force himself to quiet down, but it only made him wail harder, he tried to muffle it with the pillow, but he couldn't  _ breathe,  _ he was suffocating,  _ drowning- _

_ Calm down. Calm down.  _ He could hear his buir's voice in his head, from so many years ago.  _ Calm down. _

He shut his eyes. He thought back to Omera. Remembered her eyes, how she knew where to look into his visor. How she nearly lifted the helmet off, and he'd stopped her. He remembered how badly he wanted to throw the damn thing away and live the rest of his life as a farmer, with her, and with the kid.

He opened his eyes again. His helmet rested against the wall, on top of the rest of his armour.

The visor stared right at him, like it was taunting him.  _ Go on, hu'tuun. Put me on. _

"I can't," he whispered into the silence. "Not anymore."

_ It's not like anyone will know. _

"Shut up," he hissed. "Just shut up."

_ You don't have to tell anyone. It'd be like nothing ever happened. _

"I can't."

_ Too far gone. _

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


When he was younger, and more naive, he had liked to think he was generally okay with communication. Maybe not excellent, sure. But not necessarily terrible either. 

Unfortunately, once he began working for the Empire, all of that changed.

Suddenly he was afraid. Constantly afraid, always on edge. Stammering over his words, tripping over himself. His mouth couldn't keep up with his brain, everything he wanted to say would only stumble out in the form of stutters and muttering.

After the dimensional hop, the habit didn't die. Even after five years. Everything just got  _ worse. _

And he felt it only worsening the more and more time he spent around the Mandalorian. He could feel Din Djarin's eyes burning into the back of his skull every time he faced the other way. And when he turned to meet the Mandalorian's gaze, the man would hastily glance away with a scowl.

When Pascal was away at work, the Mandalorian would be holed up in his room. Which, really, Pershing had no issue with. Anything to avoid awkward glares, or embarrassing failures of ice-breakers.

All he'd seen of Djarin so far had been scowls or exasperated muttering. So it was difficult to adjust seeing him in any other light. 

Crying, for one, was something he’d never expected to see.

Pascal was still downstairs. Pershing was retreating back to his own room when he heard it. It was muffled, and you had to strain your ears to hear it properly, but once you knew it was there you couldn't ignore it. Yes; it was crying.

Against his better judgement, and despite his mind screaming at him to move on, he pressed his ear to the door, and listened.

If he didn't know any better, he would've thought it was anyone else. Like a child, for example. Because that was what it sounded like - a child, sad and alone.

It felt wrong to listen. Felt wrong to stick around, but found he couldn't simply forget about it. It was like the first time he saw Christopher break down. 

A sobbing desperate mess.

Christopher and Djarin weren't so different in that respect. They were both afraid beyond comprehension. At least Christopher could  _ express _ it, though; he had Ivana, to help him, with his mental health. They supported each other. Djarin, it seemed... didn't have that sort of connection with Pascal.

Or anyone else.

Pershing stepped away from the door. He bit his lip, feeling the scab that had formed over it break away. Slowly, he raised a fist, bringing it up to the door and resting it just above the knob.

He hesitated. Everything about what he was about to do felt wrong, and really, quite terrifying. But, even so, he raised his fist and knocked.

The crying stopped.

Pershing felt the very sudden urge to run. And run. But before he could even take a step, the door creaked open.

And there he was. Din Djarin, standing there with red puffy eyes and tears still glistening on his cheeks from failed attempts to hastily wipe them away.

"What the fuck do you want?" the man hissed. 

Pershing took a subconscious step back. "I just-"

"Leave me alone."

"I heard you were upset, I-"

The door slammed in his face.

Pershing stared at it, shoulders slumped.  _ Why won't you listen to your instincts? You knew that would be a bad idea. _

But then, suddenly, just as he was about to turn away, the door opened again, very slightly. Djarin stood on the other side, his expression barely visible through the slither of an opening.

"I'm sorry."

Pershing blinked. Had he misheard?

"I'm sorry," Djarin repeated, louder. His voice was hoarse, and his eyes were wide. "I'm sorry," he said again, whispering the words like he couldn't actually believe he was saying them.

Pershing shook his head. He swallowed harshly. "It's fine," he croaked.

The door shut again. Softly, this time. With a small click. And Pershing was left once more to stare at it in bewilderment.

Well.

That had been an experience.

Pershing peered over the railing down below at the rest of the house, and sure enough, Pascal was staring up at him, one eyebrow raised, bearing an expression that said: "was that even real, am I hallucinating?" 

It certainly hadn't felt real. But, then again, what did, anymore?

  
  


* * *

  
  


Pedro was trying to take a well-deserved nap when his bedroom door creaked open.

He decided to ignore it, electing instead to bury himself deeper under the covers, but he heard the approaching footsteps and knew he wouldn't be fooling anyone.

So he rolled onto his back, glaring up at Din with an unamused expression.

"...Sorry," Din mumbled, "But... But I wanted to apologise. I don't really know much about... anything, really, but I wanted to try..."

Suddenly, there was a small plastic tray situated on Pedro's lap. He stared at it for a moment, unblinking, then glanced back up at Din.

"I don't know if it's any good," Din said. "But I followed the recipe. I might've made a few mistakes. Maybe. And I made you some coffee, as well, and, well, I just wanted to apologise and also I wanted to thank you for, for everything you've done for me, and-"

He trailed off. He wrung his hands in front of himself nervously, taking a step backwards and glaring down at the bed.

Slowly, Pedro moved so that he was sitting up straight, balancing the tray carefully on his knees. There, on the tray, was a plate, and on the plate was a very jumbled looking omelette. To the left of it was a mug that was filled with black coffee.

"I hope it's okay," Din murmured. "That I used the kitchen, and your groceries, but I had a feeling that simply  _ saying  _ I was sorry wouldn't actually do much, you know, in the long run, so I wanted to do something for you, even if I'm not really a great cook and really I can't remember the last time I cooked anything, I had been living off of rations for twenty years before I met you, and-"

"Din."

"Yes?"

Pedro pulled the tray closer to his torso, then looked back up at Din. "Thank you."

They held each other's gaze for a moment, then Din once again hastily glanced away, opting to instead stare at the wall.

"I don't expect forgiveness," he said. "Ever. But I just... I just hope you understand that I'm really trying to be better. But I can't think, anymore. My thoughts are jumbled, they're a mess. When I get angry..." he shook his head. "It feels like I don't have any control over what I'm saying. Or doing. I know I  _ do,  _ I know I'm making these decisions, but that's just how it feels."

Suddenly, Din scrambled forwards and sat on the edge of Pedro's bed.

"I wasn't always like this. This isn't me. Before the dimension hop, I was just as you portray me, just as you assumed me to be. None of these issues, no unrelenting anger or- or- or  _ depression."  _ He spat the last word like a disease. "Yes, yes, I had issues, I was always different, I hate looking people in the eye, I hate talking, it makes my skin fucking crawl. It gives me panic attacks. I've been having panic attacks since I was a kid, I-"

"Din," Pedro interrupted. "Slow down. Breathe." 

Din took a deep breath. Then continued. "I have nightmares every night, I don't know what they are, I don't know what happens, I don't remember any of them, I just wake up and my heart is pounding and I can't  _ breathe.  _ And, and then I can't stop thinking about him, the kid, my kid, my  _ son _ , I can't stop thinking about him, because he could be  _ dead  _ and I would never fucking know, I would  _ never  _ know. What if I can't go back? What if I die here, as an old fucking man? I noticed a grey hair the other day, you know, and honestly, that's just a bad fucking omen, isn't it? Pedro-"

Din's hand was suddenly on Pedro's shoulder. Shaking, shivering.

"I don't want to die here." 

God.

Imagine having so much racing through your mind all at once.

All of it, the fear and isolation. Depression - because, really, they couldn't deny it anymore. It was depression. And then coupled with losing a child, never knowing if you're going to get them back...

Pedro couldn't even begin to comprehend what it was like.

Living every day of your life in internal turmoil. And not being able to express it.

It was no wonder he'd burst out into rage, or crying fits. Panic attacks. Nightmares, all of it.

Of course, of  _ course,  _ it wasn't an excuse, they both knew that. It would never be an excuse. But...

"You won't die here."

Din's hand fell from Pedro's shoulder and rested on the bed.

Pedro turned back to the tray. He picked up the fork, cutting a slice of the jumbled omelette and skewering it. "It looks good," he said. "For a first try, I mean. How many eggs did you go through before successfully cracking one?" 

Din scoffed. "I did  _ well,  _ actually, I didn't mess up a single one. I conquered the eggs." 

"I'm impressed."

"Don't act surprised!"

"I  _ am  _ surprised!"

Din mumbled something in Mando'a. Pedro chuckled, bringing the fork up to his mouth. He slowly bit down on it, and...

"Hm."

" 'Hm'?"

"It's... good."

"You can say it's shit if it's shit."

"It's shit, yeah."

Din ducked his head, hiding a smile that had begun to creep onto his face. "I  _ did _ follow the recipe."

"Mm. I'll blame the recipe, then. Not your cooking skills."

"Yes. I was deceived."

"Never trust the internet, man."

They were silent for a moment. And then, a soft chuckle, that grew steadily louder and louder. And when Pedro realised it was Din, all he could do was stare.

"Gods, I'm sorry, just-" Din cut himself off, bringing up a hand to cover his face while he continued to laugh. "This is so ridiculous, right? This is so- this is  _ so- _ "

*****

The laughter changed. It became quick and sharp. Cutting through the air, emotional and unyielding. And suddenly it wasn't laughter anymore.

"Fucking- fucking  _ dimensional travel?  _ Are you kidding? Are you- holy  _ shit,  _ right?" He smiled, even as tears rolled down his face. "Oh my god, I've cracked it." And then his expression faltered, and he frowned, and his eyes widened. "I've gone fucking insane."

"No, no-" Pedro reached out, cupping Din's face with his hand. "You're n-"

" _ DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME. _ "

  
  


Silence.

  
  


He was gripping Pedro's forearm. So tight that he thought it might break.

And there was a thought, an aching thought at the back of his mind.

_ What if he's too far gone? _

He felt something rise in his chest. An emotion he couldn't put a name to. Not fear, not anger. Not quite sadness either.

_ Disappointment? _

Maybe.

He stared. And Din stared right back. But still couldn't meet his eyes, they still lingered on his chin, and Pedro wondered briefly if it was because he was scared.

Din's grip on his arm tightened. But Pedro couldn't tell him to let go.

_ Let him think. _

Even as he felt his hand go numb, he didn't say anything. He didn't move away. He just stared, stared and watched, watched Din think and overthink and begin to panic. And the grip tightened. Pedro felt the tears in his eyes, and he felt them fall. He felt the nails digging into his skin and he felt the blood dripping down his arm. But he didn't say anything.

_ Let him figure it out. _

And then, finally, Din's eyes met Pedro's. And they saw each other.

The grip loosened. And loosened. And then it was gone. Din's hand fell to his lap. Pedro rested his arm by his side.  _ Ignore the pain. Let him think. _

And he did. He thought, and sat in silence. Pedro didn't turn to look at his arm. He waited, he would wait. It hurt, it hurt like hell, but he would deal with it later.

Din's eyes were wide. They danced from side to side, he was weighing his options. Pedro could picture them:  _ cry, or leave? Apologise, or scream? _

"I'm-" he began. And then stopped. And he realised. And the tears fell, but he didn't say anything else, because he knew apologising couldn't fix anything.

"I need to go," he whispered. Soft, quiet. Like a child.  _ "I need to go," _ he said, but still didn't move. Didn't even glance over at the door. He had no intention of leaving.

"I-"

But he faltered again. And again, and again.

And, finally, Pedro spared a glance down at his arm.

There were deep cuts, from the nails. There was blood. Not much, barely any at all, but he saw it, and he felt it, it was there. He was bleeding. Din had made him bleed.

He would only need a few bandages. Run it under cold water, he'd be fine.

It'd be fine.

It was fine.

"You don't deserve this," Din whispered. "You don't deserve any of this."

Din shifted. Opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. Shook his head. Opened his mouth again.

"Stay here," he said. "I'll- I'll be right back. Just stay here, please."

And he left. Pushed himself off the bed and left. Pedro heard him run down the corridor, to his room. Rummaging through everything. He heard the metal clang of armour as he pushed it around. And then, suddenly, he was back, and clutching a small metallic bottle. 

He scrambled up onto the bed. Sat on his knees, shaking the bottle. He reached for Pedro's arm, the one he'd scratched, but then paused, hesitated.

"Can I look at your arm?" he asked, looking directly into Pedro's eyes.

Pedro bit his lip. Weighed his options. Then, nodded. So Din reached for it, carefully bringing it forwards. He stared at it, at what he'd done. Took a deep breath. Brought the bottle up to the arm.

*****

"This might sting a bit," he said quietly. He pressed the nozzle, and began to spray the wounds.

Pedro stared, eyebrows furrowed. Surely...? 

"What's that?" he asked, not entirely sure if he wanted to know.

"Bacta," Din said. "IG11 gave me spare bottles before it... before he… died."

Pedro tried to pull his arm away. "Don't waste that on me. It's fine."

"I want to help."

"But it's fine, it doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Yes, that's because of the bacta."

Pedro watched the wounds as a layer of spray covered them. No more bleeding, just an artificial scab. No more pain.

"Stop," he whispered.

Din didn't stop.

"Stop," he said louder. "Stop it."

"Let me help."

"No."

Pedro pulled his arm away. Din's hand was left empty, held out in front of him, the other hand still clutching the bacta spray bottle. 

*****

"Don't waste it on me. Please." 

"Pedro, I can't just-"

"It's fine."

"It's  _ not  _ fine,  _ please _ -"

" _ Don't _ -"

Pedro grabbed at Din's arm, and there was an excruciating scream as Din jolted backwards, his hands flying up to his face, the bacta spray laying forgotten on the bed.

And then he was sobbing into his hands. Loud, unrelenting. Pedro tried to reach out, but alarm bells played in his head, screaming at him,  _ no, no, no, this is a bad idea. _

So he retracted his hand.

He wanted to understand. He  _ needed  _ to understand. How could he, though? If Din wouldn't talk?

_ I just want to help. _

** _*_ **

"I don't know what to do," he said softly, just as Din began to quiet down. "Please explain what I need to do."

Slowly, Din's hands fell from his face, landing in his lap. His head was ducked, Pedro couldn't see his expression, but truthfully, he didn't much want to.

"I don't," Din sniffed, "I don't like being  _ touched. _ "

Pedro swallowed harshly. "You've never reacted like this before."

There was a bitter chuckle. "Just because you don't see it doesn't mean it's not happening."

"I'm sorry."

"No." Din shook his head, using the back of his sleeve to wipe stray tears from his face. "It's not your fault. I didn't tell you."

"Has it always been like this? Or is this-" he hesitated, "new?"

"New." A sigh. " 's stupid, right?"

"No. No, no. It's not stupid. Just... this might take some time getting used to. What's-" Pedro hesitated, trying to find the right words. "What's it feel like? To you?"

Din sniffed again. He shrugged. "I can't explain it."

"Okay. You don't have to."

"But I want to. I will. I should."

"Just because you can doesn't mean you should."

"You've said that before."

"Because it's true."

Slowly, Din looked up.

_ God. _

Pedro had never seen him so pale. He'd never seen  _ anyone  _ so pale. So defeated.  _ I have no fucking experience with this. _

Din shuddered like a chill had run down his spine. "I'm..." he swallowed, "I'm so so sorry."

And, despite it all, Pedro bit back everything he wanted to say. He restrained his anger. Locked up the despair, and the sadness, and the dread. 

Instead, he bit his lip, and said nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50k words, baby!!! 
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	25. Much appreciated.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am not a fool entire  
No, I know what is coming  
You'll bury me beneath the trees I climbed  
When I was a child

5th March 2020 

A week flew by, and... despite it all, Din was as insufferable as he'd always been.

Pedro thought that, maybe, he would start trying. To better himself. After everything. But... well.

It was the stress. The stress was getting to him. The stress was getting to everyone.

Everyone was filming their last-minute scenes at the studio, so Pedro had a lot of work to do. Pershing was staying up all night and all-day negotiating with Christopher and doing whatever-the-hell else he did at three in the morning, and Din... Din was distant. Like how he was on the day of the convention, but worse.

He wasn't eating. Or sleeping. He spent the majority of the day either holed up in his room or staring blankly at the TV whether it was on or not. When he talked it was to make a snarky remark, only for a million apologies to immediately roll off his tongue like he was scared of what would happen if he didn't.

The apologising was good, at least. It was an improvement, it meant Din was aware of what he was doing, and he knew it wasn't okay anymore, he knew he needed to change. But that didn't stop the next remark, and the next, and the next. And the next. 

The scars on Pedro's arm were a reminder. A reminder that would never fade.  _ He's just going to get worse. You know he will. _

"...tried to convince Christopher, but he insists that he should come here, instead..."

Oh. Pershing had been talking. "What?" 

"I said, I know you're uneasy about this, so I tried to convince Christopher to allow us to go to him, instead. But he insists." The doctor sighed and shook his head. "He's scared you'll expose the hideout."

Pedro glanced over at Din. He was laying on the couch and staring up at the ceiling.

"Christopher doesn't scare me," Pedro lied. "I'm just worried that Din will throw a fit."

The man in question stood abruptly from the couch. He didn't look at either of them as he stormed past the dining table and up the stairs.

"I think he heard you," Pershing said wearily.

"No fucking shit." Pedro pushed himself off of his seat. Without saying anything else he leapt up the staircase, stopping abruptly in front of Din's room.

"Din?"

No response.

"Can I come in?"

Still nothing.

"You're insufferable."

"You think I don't know that already?" came a muffled reply.

Pedro twisted the doorknob and swung the door open. There, on the bed, was Din, legs neatly crossed and his notebook in his lap. The jacket he'd been previously wearing was discarded on the back of a chair, and anyone could see just how skinny he'd become.

"When was the last time you ate?" Pedro asked.

Din shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"Does it-? Of course it fucking matters."

"I'm fine."

"You say that a lot."

"Because it's true."

Pedro huffed. His eyes wandered to the wall, where Din's armour was resting in a neat pile. He could see everything, except... for the helmet. Now that he thought about it... when's the last time he wore his helmet?

It was before they left, wasn't it?

"Where's your helmet?" he asked absentmindedly.

Din didn't respond. When Pedro turned to look he saw the man hunched over the notebook, scribbling meaningless lines all over the page he'd just been working on.

"Din? Where's your helmet?"

"In the cupboard."

Sure enough, when Pedro opened the cupboard, the helmet was resting on a high shelf you'd have to stand on a box to reach. "Why?"

Nothing.

He turned back around just as Din tore out a piece of paper and scrunched it into a tight ball.

"Why?" Pedro asked again. Still nothing. Din only continued to write so aggressively that Pedro worried for a moment the pen would go right through.

He sat down on the bed. "Tell me why. Please."

Din paused. He closed the notebook, the pen still sitting between the pages. After a moment, he looked up, but still didn't meet Pedro's eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said. "So please don't ask."

A step in the right direction, but... "If you refuse to talk, then-"

" _ Ne'johaa _ !"

Pedro froze. He felt a knot form in his throat. Din glared at him, held a piercing gaze, an almost frightening glare, but even so, his bottom lip quivered.

"I don't know what that means," Pedro croaked.

Instead of responding, Din pushed himself off the bed, the notebook discarded where he once sat. He was just about to reach for the door when Pedro stood up, leaned over and grabbed his arm.

A mistake. He knew it, as soon as it happened. Din tensed. His eyes widened. But nothing happened. No screaming. No thrashing.

"If you refuse to talk, then I can't help you."

And then, finally, they met each other's eyes. And for once, the gaze didn't waver. And Pedro could see the deep brown, deeper than his own. So different. So very different. The eyes were always different. Like fingerprints.

Pedro could feel Din's arm shaking within his grasp, the longer their eyes were met the worse Din looked, every second passing by making him appear only more and more afraid, but for some reason, neither of them could look away.

And then it stopped. All at once. Din's eyes fell to the floor. He snatched his wrist away.

"No one can help me." 

And he left.

And Pedro was alone. Standing in the bedroom, staring at the closed door, dumbfounded and feeling stupid.

He was frozen to the spot. All he could think about was Din's eyes boring into his skull. He looked down at his hands and saw they were shaking.

"Din," he whispered, as though he could be heard. As though the man was still in the room, waiting. But he was already gone, and Pedro was alone. "Din," he said again, louder, wishing that he didn't have to be alone anymore.

And he felt the emotion, but he shoved it down, pushed it away. He felt the emotion but instead he held his head high, sucked in a breath, and left.

And it was just the same as before. The house hadn't changed. But it had felt like hours, standing in that room. And, really, the more he thought about it, maybe it had been.

He could see Din in the yard. Just standing there. Not doing anything. Just standing, hands in his pockets. Looking at nothing, probably. Or maybe a bird. Maybe the clouds.

Maybe he was overthinking. Maybe he wasn't thinking at all. Damn, that sounds like a dream. 

Pershing wasn't anywhere to be found. Not in the lounge anymore. Probably back in his room, maybe he got a call from Christopher. Maybe he was making arrangements.

God knows what the doctor did in all the time he spent hunched over his notebooks or standing in his room. God knows what went through that man's mind, day after day. Passed out on couches, or falling asleep at the table. Did his mind race? Could he get it to shut up?

Pedro'd seen it. The puffy eyes and tears that were hastily wiped away.

No one was stable anymore, it seemed.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The days were all merging into one. Everything was the same. Especially after they wrapped up filming.

It was on the 9th. They filmed their last scene. Everyone went home. They hugged, said their goodbyes. Pedro smiled and said "see you for season three!" and it was  _ fine. _

And then he was home again, living with two other people who were continually teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown. Pershing, at least, talked. He talked about what he was feeling. Expressed his worries, expressed how tired he was.

Din was a stubborn fucking bastard.

There was a silver lining, at least. Christopher and Ivana would be visiting, with their friend as well. Din wasn't happy about it, but... when was he happy about anything?

It was the 10th of March. That was the day before they were scheduled to visit. Everyone was on edge. No one knew how it was going to go. Maybe it would be fine, maybe Din would see there was nothing to be on edge about, maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Wishful fucking thinking. Din walked like he was expecting to be jumped. His hand would hover near his hip, where his blaster would usually sit. Being in the same room as Pershing seemed to make him physically recoil from any and all interaction. His entire body would freeze. Pedro could physically see the muscles tensing when anyone got close. The wide eyes, cautious glances.

Getting worse.  _ He's getting worse. _

_ He needs help. You need to get him help. _

_ But he's not going to accept help. You know he won't. _

It was the 10th of March. Five minutes before midnight. Everything was silent. No wind, no rain. No Edgar walking around in the middle of the night. Just blissful silence. 

Which was why it was so easy to hear Din exiting his room and stopping in front of Pedro's door. It was easy to sense the hesitation and fear. The uncertainty.

Then, knocking. Soft, barely audible. But it was there.

Pedro didn't get up. He didn't glance in the door's direction, not even when Din opened it and stepped inside.

"Pedro?" came an uncertain whisper. "Are you asleep?"

"Yes," Pedro mumbled into his pillow.

"I keep waking up," Din murmured.

"I noticed."

There was the sound of approaching footsteps. A gentle pitter-patter against the carpet. Pedro opened his eyes and saw Din's bare feet standing at his bedside, barely covered by the pyjama pants.

"I can't sleep," he said. "I wanted to know if-"

Din cut himself short. Hesitation, fear. Uncertainty.

Pedro closed his eyes again.  _ He'll speak when he's ready. Don't push it. _

"I wanted... I wanted to know if..."

_ It's okay. Take your time. Don't rush, calm down. _

"I wanted to know if I could sleep with you tonight." 

Pedro's eyes snapped open. He stared up at Din, and Din stared right back. He couldn't see his expression, but he could feel the doubt. Could feel the tension. Shaking. Shivering. From the fear, maybe. Or maybe he was just cold.

_ Yes. Of course. Of course, you can. If it helps. _ But he didn't voice any of this. Instead, he slid to the other side of the bed and nodded.  _ Go ahead. _

There was more hesitation. A few false starts, as he moved to get on the bed and changed his mind. And then, finally, he scrambled into it and buried himself under the covers.

And it was strange. Incredibly alien. When was the last time Pedro had shared a bed with anyone outside of, well, acting? Couldn't even remember. The shift in weight was odd. Unusual. Yet, somehow... comforting.

Din's breathing was uneven. Fleeting. He was shivering, even under the thick weight of the blankets.

It took him a while, but then he noticed Din just, staring. He waited.  _ Strange.  _

He didn’t want to think about the last time this happened. The shuddering that seemed to intensify with every passing second, growing terror evident in his eyes. But... this was different. He was composed, there was no agitation nor panic. It was like he thought Pedro couldn’t see him. 

_ Oh. _ He  _ did  _ think Pedro couldn’t see him. 

_ Let’s see how long he takes to realise. _

Just then, the shivering stopped and Din’s eyes widened.  _ He knows. _

“You know I’m gonna win, right?”

“…What?”

“This,” Pedro gestured, “is a staring contest.”

Din sighed, “Another one of your games? The last time you almost broke your back.”

Pedro gasped, looking as scandalised as he could in the dark, “That  _ never _ happened. Anyway,” he continued quickly, “That’s not important. What’s important is that you’ve never had any experience under that bucket of yours, so  _ I’m  _ gonna win.” He almost winked, then remembered that would make him lose.

Din frowned, “What d’you mean I’ve got no practice? I give bounties That look all the time. You know?  _ My  _ look?”

“Never heard of it.”

Din scoffed.

“I remember once we were hanging around during a break while the crew was setting up some stuff. And then, I get this weird sensation, and when I look around, I see Taika  _ staring into my soul _ . So naturally, I look back because I could never back down from a staring contest. This goes on for like, thirty seconds and suddenly, he starts walking towards me, and I’m thinking,  _ what’s he gonna do? _ ”

Tears had started forming in Din’s eyes.  _ Yes, it’s working. _

“He stops inches from my face and he just  _ tickles  _ me. I start laughing and then he starts laughing. We’re both laughing our heads off, but guess what,  _ he _ blinks first.”

Slowly, but surely, Pedro felt the stinging in his eyes gradually increasing.

“So basically what I’m trying to say is that I’ll win this.”

“Sounds like this Taika guy’s pretty bad at this game.”

“Pfft,  _ you’re _ pretty bad at it too. Look at how much you’re tearing up.”

“Like you’re not. Your eyelids are twitching so badly, you’re going to blink any time soon.”

Pedro laughed, “This is ridiculous, who has a staring contest right before sleeping?”

“Well,” Din chuckled, “I’m not the one who insisted on doing this.”

“But you started it!”

Pedro sensed it from a mile away. It was inevitable. The blink. 

He blinked first.

“HAH!” Din exclaimed, before realising it was the dead of the night. “I win again!” he stage-whispered, excitement still evident in his voice 

“Fine, you win this time,” Pedro sighed. “But next time,” he said with renewed confidence, “ _ I’ll _ win. Mark my words.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Din replied, shaking his head.

“By the way, I was just bluffing. Earlier. Taika won that day, I’m a sucker for tickles.”

“I can’t believe you,” Din said through quiet snickers.

_ This is only temporary.  _

Pedro hated the rational part of his brain sometimes.

_ This will never be normal,  _ his thoughts echoed.

_ You know why he’s here in the first place. _

"Are you still having nightmares?" Pedro asked softly, after a moment’s pause. He heard Din's breath hitch.

"Yes," he replied simply after only a moment of hesitation.

"You don't remember them, though."

"No."

"That's good, at least. Right?"

"I suppose."

Pedro knew he shouldn't stare, but even so, he couldn't help it. It was such a strange sight. Din bloody Djarin lying in his bed like a child because he couldn't sleep. Because he was having  _ nightmares. _

He buried himself deeper into the covers. Listened to Din's breathing.

"What are you feeling right now?" he asked. Din shrugged.

"Tired."

"There's a lot of that going around."

There was the sound of ruffling sheets, and suddenly Din's hand was on the pillow. The shaking was back.

"You okay?"

"Am I ever?"

"You look cold."

"Freezing."

Slowly, Pedro brought up his own hand and rested it on Din's. It was cold. He could feel the scars. "This okay?"

Hesitation. Uncertainty.

"I don't know." A brief pause. Uneven breathing. He shook his head. "No."

Pedro removed his hand. "What touches are okay, then?"

He was sure if they weren't lying down, Din would've titled his head.

"Um," the man croaked. "None? I think. Unless there's a warning, or-or I initiate it."

"Do you want me to warn you, then?"

Din shifted his position in the bed. "Yes."

"What if I ask if I can touch your hand?"

More silence. More hesitation. Din shivered. His hand moved to pull the covers slightly higher over him, then moved back to its original place on the pillow. "I don't know."

"Can I try?"

Din's breathing seemed to have slowed. Evened out. He was still tense, there were goosebumps on his arm, still cold... but, maybe, hopefully, he was just that little bit more at peace. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

So, again, Pedro reached out his hand, and, slowly, placed it over Din's. Still cold. Still frigid. Still shaking.

"I didn't know you felt like this when people touched you," Pedro mumbled. "If you'd told me sooner, I could've helped."

Din shook his head in the best way he could with his face buried in the pillow. "Too much on your plate."

"Bullshit. You're my priority."

He heard Din inhale sharply.

"Please let me help you," Pedro whispered. "I know nothing will ever be the same. Not without your son. But let me help."

Instead of answering, Din moved in closer. Pedro could feel his breath. Heavy, and slow. Like he was trying to calm himself down.

"I don't know if you can. I don't- I don't know if anyone can."

"That's okay. You don't have to know, you don't need to be certain, just let me try. If I can't help, then we can find something else. Okay? Okay? Hermano?"

Nothing. Silence. The only indication that Din was even still there at all was his breathing. The sound, and Pedro feeling it against his skin. Warm.

More silence, then, a sad sigh. "Doesn't this feel strange to you?"

Pedro furrowed his eyebrows. "What d'you mean?"

"I-I mean- it's- we're sharing a bed. And we're not... doesn't it feel strange, for you?"

"No. I don't see why it should."

"I don't know about you but I'm not-"

"Does it feel weird for you?"

"No."

"I don't see an issue, then."

Another stretch of silence, then the sounds of sheets ruffling as Din rolled onto his back, moving his hand out from under Pedro's. "Right," he said. "Sorry."

"You've been apologising a lot lately."

"Sorry."

Pedro sighed. The fatigue began to weigh down heavier, and he closed his eyes again. "You don't need to apologise for things like that."

"I thought... apologising would be a good thing."

"Yeah, definitely. When you need to apologise. Not for asking questions. Never apologise for asking questions."

Watching Din was like watching himself. Watching himself go through a mental breakdown, from the point of view of his friends. Or his family. How'd it look like to strangers? What did people think when they saw Din at that convention? Being carried out of the centre, completely blacked out yet still  _ screaming _ into Pedro's shoulder. What did they think? What were their thoughts? Were they judgemental? Understanding? Did they think it was a tantrum, or did they know something was seriously wrong? 

"I want to talk to a therapist."

"...are you sure?"

"I'm getting worse." Din's head turned to face Pedro. "I have to do something. Before I fucking  _ rot _ ."

Therapy.

"Okay."

Pedro'd never needed it. In darker times, maybe, he'd briefly considered, but... he'd never needed it. He wasn't screaming in his sleep. Or refusing to eat, or shower. He didn't dissociate, or throw fits, or burst into tears at any minor inconvenience.

Din... Din did all of that. All of that and then some. At first, it was minor, with- with the brooding, sitting at tables and sighing. That was just what the Mandalorian did. And then it grew, like a disease, a plague. A cigarette in the woods maturing into a hellscape of fire.

How long had it been?

Barely over two months.

_ Things progress so quickly. _

It had felt like years already. Like it was never any different. How did it all happen so fast? 

Two months.  _ Too long. _

How much longer would they have to endure?

_ I don't know how long Din can last. _

He'd just get worse. And worse. Two months turn into three. Three turn into five, then six. Then a whole year. Then  _ two  _ years.

How long? How long would Din be stuck? Five years? Ten, like Christopher, and Ivana?

What if it was forever? At what point does he move on? Get on with life? Get a job, a citizenship. Get married, have kids. Grow old. That was the ideal life, right?

Yeah. Sure. When you haven't been through insurmountable trauma. When you haven't lost your home, and your child along with it.

"I had a dream that I was back on Sorgan."

Pedro blinked away the tears in his eyes. "Was it a good dream?"

Hesitation. "Yes. Until I woke up, at least, I guess." Din sighed. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Omera was there. With Winta, at the ponds." Din's breath hitched. "I-I don't-"

He paused. The only sound was his ragged breathing.

"I miss- I miss them," he spoke quietly. "I miss them so fucking much."

Pedro reached over to his bedside. He flipped a switch, and his lamp flickered on, just barely giving off enough light for him to be able to see Din's expression as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

Surprisingly blank. Surprisingly hollow.

"Are you okay?"

It was a stupid question. They both knew the answer.

Din turned to face him. Gave him a vacant stare. His eyes appeared distant, and empty. Like there was never any emotion there at all. If Pedro didn't know any better, he'd think he was dead.

"No." 

And yet his voice carried so much weight. Barely above a whisper, but on such a quiet night, it felt louder than a gunshot. Or a crack of thunder.

_ At least he can admit it. _

For once, right?

"I hurt you," Din murmured.

Ah.

"I was trying not to think about it," Pedro sighed.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise."

Din turned onto his side. He stared with wide eyes and furrowed brows. Confused, fearful. The beginnings of rain thumping on the roof above them did nothing to ease Pedro's discomfort from the eerie silence.

"What am I supposed to do, then?" Din rasped. "If not apologise?" He paused, for a moment. His eyes scanned Pedro's face, his expression. "Please tell me what to do."

It was like looking into the eyes of a child. Watching their fearful gaze, eyes dancing from side to side, waiting for something, but not sure what. Pedro could see the pain, and the fear, the deep-rooted self-hatred. He could see every uncertainty that followed every action. He could see the anxiety, panic attacks, feeling like you're dying and having no way out. Feeling suffocated. Like you're choking on nothing but your own breath. A scream deep in the back of your throat, threatening, always there.

Until, one day, you snap.

"Why won't you wear your helmet?" Pedro asked softly. Ignoring the question.

Din's eyes shut. Resignation. Sadness mixed with relief. He took a deep shaky breath, and then, opened his eyes once more.

"I can't."

"You can't?"

"I can't wear it." 

Pedro wanted to reach out. Grasp Din's hand, tell him it would be okay. Tell him everything would be fine. Reassure him, comfort him.

"You can," is what he said instead.

"No," Din muttered, "I can't."

"You can," Pedro said again as though it would change anything at all.

Din's eyes closed again, tighter. His bottom lip quivered. Another shuddering breath, but shallow, and quick.

_ Back down. Back down. _

"Please don't," Din croaked.

"Don't what?"

"Please don't argue with me about this."

Pedro scrambled to his knees. He peered down at Din, whose eyes fluttered open at the sudden movement.

"But, but you're not- you're  _ not _ \- right?"

He'd read up about their culture. The Mandalorians. He needed to, for the role, so he knew, he knew the implication, but _ still- _

"You're not," Pedro insisted. "You're not. Okay?"

Din's eyes filled with tears. Pedro wanted nothing more than to reassure him, tell him it would be _ okay- _

"I wish- I wish that was true," Din choked. "I really f-fucking wish it was."

"It is."

"Pedro, please."

And...

Just...

He looked so  _ desperate. _

So  _ tired. _

Pedro leaned in closer. He studied Din's face. His expression. His eyes, how they never stopped moving. How he'd bite the inside of his mouth.

He had freckles. On his jaw.

Pedro didn't have freckles.

"What are you doing?" Din croaked. His eyebrows furrowed with confusion and concern.

Pedro pulled away, feeling his face heat up from embarrassment. "Nothing," he said. "Just..." he took a deep breath. "You look so tired." 

Din smiled bitterly. "I am tired."

Slowly, Pedro slid under the covers, pulling them over his shoulder and up to his eyes.

"It's a different dimension," he said softly. "What if it doesn't count?"

Din closed his eyes once more. "Whether or not it counts in- in the, the religious sense doesn't mean anything. I've ignored my heritage. Discarded the armour, didn't protect you, or-or... I broke the Creed. The Way." Silence, then, "It counts. It counts for me. I can't hide behind that-that thing forever. I'm-"

He halted abruptly, as though the words got stuck in his throat. He swallowed harshly, hesitating, afraid.

Because thinking it was one thing. Actually saying it only set it in stone.

Din's eyes fluttered open. He stared at Pedro, but it was almost as though he was transparent, or not even there at all.

"Dar'manda," he said. 

His voice was barely a whisper, you'd need to strain your ears to hear it. Pedro almost didn't catch it; but he did, it was there. And all he could do was stare as Din began to sob into the pillow.

Set in stone.

So that's it, then.

"I'm sorry," Pedro muttered. "I never even thought about it."

After some time, Din shook his head, face still buried in the pillow. He'd quietened now, only reduced to the occasional sniff or shuddering breath. "It's not your fault," he said, voice muffled. "I should have been better."

Pedro shivered as a gush of cold air came in through the window. He'd have to remember to close it before going to sleep.

"These are exceptional circumstances," he muttered. "No one can blame you. No one."

There was a moment of silence. Din's breathing began to slowly even out, and eventually, his head turned so his face was no longer buried in the pillow. His eyes were puffy and red, but he'd at least seemed to have calmed down.

"I used to lie awake and think about living on Sorgan," he sniffed. "With Omera." A brief pause. "I think I love her."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Talk to me about her."

Din rolled onto his back with a sigh. He stared up at the ceiling, and Pedro leaned over to the lamp to turn it off.

"She's... beautiful. I don't really know how to explain, but, I just remember leaving that cottage in the mornings and seeing her working at the ponds, fishing for krill. She'd tie her hair up into a really messy bun, and tie her dress into a knot at the back so it didn't get wet. But then Winta would splash her, and she'd get soaked anyway. And on the really sunny mornings, it's like she would glow. The sun, her skin. And the water. And then she'd turn to look at me, and I'd get this feeling in my chest." He brought his hand up to his heart. "It was overwhelming and I didn't understand it. I still- I still don't."

Pedro hummed. "I don't think you have to understand it."

Din's head turned to face him. "It hurts."

"It tends to."

"It hurts so fucking much. I can feel it. In my chest, I feel it. I see Omera, I see  _ Julia _ , and it hurts."

Pedro closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep for hours on end.

"You'll go home to them," he said. "One day. To Omera, and Winta. And your son."

"You can't promise that."

"You're right. I can't." Pedro opened his eyes again, but only very slightly.  _ God. I'm so tired.  _ "It was stupid of me to promise anything. I'm sorry. But I'll fucking try. I'll really fucking try to get you home."

They fell into silence. Pedro closed his eyes again, burying his face deeper into the pillow. He felt it, he was so close to falling asleep, just a bit longer…

"You try so hard. All the time. While I sit in bed all day, doing nothing to help."

Damn.

"It's fine, Din. I know... I know you're going through a lot of shit. Shit that I can't even begin to comprehend." Pedro paused to yawn. "So," he continued, "so it's forgiven. Really. Please don't try to force yourself to do shit if you don't want to."

"But I do. I do want to. I just... can't. I'm so tired- I'm so  _ fatigued,  _ all the time. Like the weight of the Universe is pushing down on me. Like... like... like it's trying to push me  _ out. _ "

"Like it knows you're not supposed to be here?"

"Yes. Yes, exactly."

"Mm."

He felt too tired to respond properly. His eyes had begun to hurt again, and he suddenly realised just how  _ exhausted  _ he actually was. Pedro hadn't had a good night's sleep since...

Since he got shot.

"Jon said," Pedro started with a sigh, "that you can visit the set soon. We finished filming, but... makes it easier for a proper tour, when no one else is around..."

There was no response, except for a very deep sigh. Pedro felt the warm breath against his skin. He opened his eyes, expecting to see Din staring blankly back, only to find that the poor man had completely passed out.

"Guess I'm not the only one who's exhausted," Pedro said quietly to himself.

He stared, for a moment.

Din looked so peaceful. So tired, and so pale, and so dishevelled, but yet so tranquil at the same time. It was almost surreal, watching the slow and steady rise of his chest. After some length of time, Din's eyes began to move back and forth under his eyelids, indicating that he was dreaming.

So, not even bothering to get up and close the window, Pedro too closed his eyes, the only sounds being the gentle rain and Din's slow breathing as he fell into a deep sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i cant hear u over the sound of "straight guys should be allowed to be intimate without being labelled as gay"
> 
> translations:  
ne'johaa = shut up
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	26. The Conference.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got a terror I can't shake pushing down on my lungs  
It's got me lying there awake with a hand on a gun while turning shadows into shapes  
Mother Fortuna, O, she makes sisters of us all  
When the faces in her wake  
Look more like our own than the effigies we immolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u might wanna grab some snacks for this one... its a long chapter

_11th March 2020_

He saw them before they saw him.

In the window. The actor was pacing, running his hands through his hair. The doctor sat at a table, tapping his pen on the surface, a nervous tick. The Mandalorian wasn't within view, but he knew he was there because every now and then the actor would stop to talk to someone that was just off to the side. Hidden by the walls.

Christopher, Ivana, and Samantha decided to walk. They didn't want to risk their car being tracked. True, _not _having their car would make escaping a lot more difficult if things were to go awry, but he knew that the doctor wouldn't allow the actor and his Mandalorian to try anything.

Eventually, after five minutes of just _watching, _the actor noticed they were there. And he stared. Christopher could see the colour draining from his face. His stance shifted, he became stiff. He subconsciously scratched at his shoulder.

_I did this._

And then, the doctor was at the window, too. Staring, with wide eyes, hidden by those ridiculous glasses he insisted on.

"You going to keep staring?" Ivana said from beside him. "I'm not sure being creepy will help our case."

He continued to stare for another good ten seconds.

"Well," he finally spoke, with a sigh. "We should go say hi."

Still, they stood there. Staring, at the house. At some point the doctor abandoned the window, leaving only the actor to stare down at them with his jaw clenched. White as a sheet.

"Probably, yes."

Christopher reached out to grab Ivana's hand. He felt the simple band around her finger. Cool, pleasant. A reminder. He turned to Samantha. She didn't look up at him. White hair covered her eyes, her head ducked. He'd never seen her so silent before. So afraid. Cautious.

"Here goes nothing," he mumbled, then marched stiffly up to the front door.

He hesitated before knocking. Clenched fist hovered over the wood. Then decided to press the doorbell instead. He heard it ring from inside.

He felt the tension from inside the house, like radiation. Everyone thinking to themselves, _what's going to happen next?_

And the door opened. The doctor stood on the other side, staring up at him. The same as he'd ever been; tired and depressed.

"I hope we're not too late," Ivana spoke softly. "We decided to walk."

"Why?"

Christopher peered past the doctor. There, sitting against a wall, his knees tucked into his chest, was the Mandalorian. No armour, nothing even hiding his face, like the sunglasses or the scarf. Casual.

"Why?" the Mandalorian asked again when Christopher didn't respond. He was glaring. Eyes boring into his skull. A piercing gaze, and, even in his bunched-up position, he was threatening.

Threatening, and looking utterly exhausted, too. Shaking. A locked jaw. Skinny, sweaty. Dishevelled.

Christopher pointedly decided not to respond. Instead, he gazed around the corner, where he saw the actor standing with his arms crossed over his chest, staring. _Glaring._

_I did this._

The doctor stepped aside. Christopher stared at the empty space in front of him for a moment before moving into the warm interior of the house. Heating was on. Had been for a while. How long had the actor been pacing in the living room? What hour did he get up? How much anxiety did he feel?

He caressed Ivana's hand. _Don't overthink._

"We brought a friend," Christopher found himself saying. He stepped aside. Gestured for Samantha to step forwards. She shuffled into the house, hands shoved deep into her blue jumper's pockets. Eyes cast downward, at the floor, not daring even a glance.

Christopher remembered how fiery she used to be. How much of a _brat _she was. Reduced to an anxious mess. He remembered that she used to wear red lipstick, bright red, crimson. A bold choice for someone who was albino, but she was never known for being discreet.

"She's a family friend," Ivana said. "Chris has known her since they were in kindergarten."

The actor stepped forward, slowly. His legs shaking as he did.

"What's your name?" he asked softly.

Samantha swallowed. Exhaled shakily. "Samantha Duke," she said in a hushed tone. The first time she'd spoken since she arrived. Falling from the ceiling, landing on the ground with a sickening crack as she tried to break her fall with her hand. Her glasses falling off her face and getting snapped in half.

"Okay," the actor said. "Samantha. Sam? Can I call you Sam?"

"Sam is my brother," she whispered. Then paused. "But yes."

The Mandalorian suddenly got up from his place on the floor. He became a looming presence as he stepped forward. Such an incredible contrast compared to the actor, a soft and kind man.

_He didn't deserve it._

"How did you appear?" the Mandalorian demanded. The actor sucked in a sharp breath.

"Din," he hissed.

"She's here to answer questions."

"Remember how _you _felt. Give her some time."

Sighing, the Mandalorian turned on his heel, shaking his head and retreating back to the wall. He mumbled something that Christopher couldn't make out.

The actor gestured to the dining table. "Sit down. Don't stand in the doorway."

So they all sat, beside each other, shoulder to shoulder. Samantha between him and Ivana. Shielding her.

Christopher heard the door close behind him.

"You wanted to talk," said the actor, sliding into a seat on the opposite end of the table. "You said you might be able to provide information."

Chris turned to Samantha. She shook her head, refusing to speak. He could picture how, only a week ago for her, she would've jumped at any opportunity to speak her mind. He could picture her frown, her cruel scowl, that nasty expression she bore before she was about to say something inhumane.

Ten years, flying by in just one week.

"She appeared about a week and a half ago," Ivana said instead. "Fell from the ceiling and broke her wrist. Interestingly, though..." She dug into her jean pockets, pulling out a folded piece of paper. She opened it up, laying it out on the table in front of everyone. It was an annotated diagram, titled _TIME._

"What we initially thought was that people all came disappeared at the same moment." She pointed at a singular point in the diagram, labelled with her and Chris' name. "This was disproven when you, Din Djarin, disappeared a month after the doctor did." She gestured to another point on the opposite side of the diagram, indicating the Mandalorian's appearance, much further down the diagram. "What's interesting about that is the five-year gap. Why such a large time-skip? The doctor aged five years in one month."

Christopher leaned forward. "So we figured that people must be coming in at separate times. But why? What's the point in that? Samantha disappeared a week after we did, and here she is, _ten years _later."

"So you had a thought, didn't you, Doctor?" Ivana said. "Just yesterday."

All eyes turned to Pershing. He turned a very bright shade of red.

"U-Um," he stammered. "Well. Yes." He paused for a brief moment, taking a deep breath. "Yes. What I thought, was, that, well, essentially, it _did _happen at the same time. But not in the sense of in actual time, but rather, in space. I thought that maybe it could be the result of one singular event. Like a glitch, something going wrong in the Universes' functionality."

He shuffled forwards in his seat, resting his arms on the table. "See, consider a video game. The coding. There are specific events that happen throughout the game, and that is time. Each line of code contributes to the overall functionality of a game, everything works properly in a manner that they were intended to. If any line suddenly breaks, then those specific things break along with it. It's like-"

"A simulation?"

The voice sounded like the actor's, but when Christopher turned to check, it had actually been the Mandalorian, once again standing and leaning against the wall.

"Yes," the doctor nodded. "Yes, like a simulation. Which brings me to my other point..."

Christopher smiled fondly. There was no stopping Pershing once he was talking.

"...that our minds are connected to a similar sort of coding. You've noticed - I'm sure you noticed, of course, you noticed - you're not the same. You don't feel the same, you feel like you're in a different body. Right?"

Chris glanced over at the Mandalorian. His facial expression was frozen blank, but if you peered close enough you could see his entire body tensing.

"R-Right," the doctor continued, faltering for a moment. "So... so then, if our minds are connected to the Universes in the same strange way, then the 'coding' is going to mess us up, as well."

Chris felt a pair of eyes on him. He turned to face the actor, who was peering over at him with a strange expression. But then he abruptly turned away, focusing on the doctor once more.

The Mandalorian pushed himself off the wall and approached the table. His arms were crossed over his chest. His jaw was clenched, but he still refused to show any emotion.

"Why would our minds be connected to the Universes?" he croaked.

The doctor only shrugged. "We don't know. It's only a hypothesis, anyway, but, as Ivana and Christopher especially can attest... it's... something happened. In the hop. Even if I'm entirely wrong, _something_ happened that... that..."

He trailed off, suddenly folding in on himself and flushing.

"...has negative connotations," he mumbled.

An awkward silence fell over the room. Not the sort that you get on a date, when all you can do is talk about the weather. Not like when a conversation suddenly comes to a halt during a family reunion because the aunt said something controversial. No, it was a silence that overwhelmed you and suffocated you because everyone in the room was going through a perpetual mental breakdown.

"It's more than negative connotations," Christopher spoke softly. "Everyone in this room can attest to that."

He felt Ivana's hand grab at his, reaching from behind Samantha's chair. He grasped it, feeling the cool wedding band once more. In his other hand, he fiddled with his own. _Comfort._

"We don't need to focus on that right now," she said. "It's not important."

"It's _important,_" the Mandalorian hissed, "to _me._"

Christopher turned to glare at him. He bit the inside of his mouth so hard that it bled. Gripped Ivana's hand just a little bit tighter, feeling hers squeeze his in return. _Don't, _it said. He ignored it.

"You're not the only bastard with issues," he growled. "If you want to talk about your damn feelings, you can wait."

He saw the actor's head turn towards him from the corner of his eye, but pointedly ignored it. He kept his gaze steady, glared at the Mandalorian, who refused to spare even a glance in his direction. His eyes were fixed to the table like he was trying to burn two tiny holes into it.

"Save the fighting for _later,_" the actor fumed. Christopher could see his face turning red. "You're here to give us information and that's _it._"

Chris tilted his head slightly to the side. "I was hoping we might be able to discuss the possibility of-"

"You shot me. We're not discussing anything." The actor leaned forwards in his chair. Chris clenched his jaw. "Either you give us information, or you leave."

Chris' eyes wandered to the actor's shoulder. It twitched, and a pang of guilt shot through his chest.

_Nothing I say will fix this._

Instead of speaking, he shifted his position in the seat and averted his gaze to the table. He heard Ivana sigh.

"We don't know much. What we've told you is about the extent of it. Even with ten years under our belt, the doctor has only been here five and two of those were not spent with us."

"What were you like?"

Christopher looked up. The actor was staring straight at him with a deep frown.

"Me?" Chris asked.

"Yes," the actor said.

He bit his lip.

After ten years, you tended to forget most things. About yourself, about your life.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words only got caught in his throat. So he shut it again, feeling his face heat up.

But people were staring. The entire table, even Samantha's head was turned in his direction, expecting, expecting, expecting.

_Push through push through push through._

"I don't remember," he lied. Ivana's grip on his hand tightened. _Comfort. Remember, comfort._

"Did you have a family?"

The actor's curiosity triggered alarm bells in Chris' brain. _Not trustworthy. Don't trust him. Don't speak. Don't speak. Don't speak._

But he pushed through.

"I had a twin brother." An image of James flashed in his mind. Blonde, blue eyes. Glasses. A smile that could melt you. "And an older sister." Jennifer. Short, with curly black hair and pale skin. Fiery, determined.

She would be thirty-eight.

Chris felt his heart begin to quicken its pace. He ignored it. He pushed through. He'd done it before. He'd done it all his life. _You're fine. You're fine. You're fine._

"What about your parents?"

"Why are you interrogating me?" Chris hissed.

"Did you have any children?"

_Stop. Stop. Stop it. Stop. Stop._

"I did not," he said through gritted teeth.

He saw the Mandalorian move away from the table. He ignored it. Focused on the actor.

"Tell me what you were like."

"I told you I _don't remember._"

"And I know you're lying."

Bile rose to the back of Chris' throat. A chill ran down his spine and his heart-rate began to thump faster, and faster.

_A panic attack?_

_Over this?_

_Fucking moron._

He forced himself to focus on Ivana's hand. Warm. _Comfort. _Took a deep shuddering breath.

"My life is none of your business." He forced each word out, voice sounding hoarse, like he'd never used it.

Instant relief flooded him when the actor's gaze turned to Samantha instead.

"What about you, Sam?" he asked softly. A kinder tone, nothing like how he was talking just a moment prior.

Samantha hesitated. She cleared her throat. "I don't know," she whispered.

Christopher swallowed the words _brat _and _spoiled _and _bitch. _Kept his mouth firmly shut.

"You mentioned your brother," the actor said.

Samantha nodded subtly. "Younger brother. He's really annoying," she sniffled.

_Oh god, don't cry._

"Yeah, they tend to be. How old is he?"

Samantha's hand shot up to hastily wipe away a tear, then it settled back in her lap. "Eighteen."

"Do you have any other family?"

"My parents," she sniffed. "My grandparents." She paused for a moment, and Christopher knew what she was going to say before she even said it. "My cousin."

_Julian._

An image of a young anxiety-ridden boy crossed his mind. Julian was Jennifer's age, when they disappeared. 28. Nearly 29.

He remembered how Julian would stare at Jennifer, then flush profusely when she glanced in his direction. He remembered feeling sorry for him, frowning, knowing that Jen never wanted anything to do with relationships after the last one.

A bout of emotion threatened to rise in his chest. He pushed it down.

"He was an addict," Samantha sniffed. "He became depressed after his sister... died, and, he started drugging himself-"

Ariane's death had been difficult on everyone. She was only fifteen.

"-but then he met Xavier, and they became such close friends, and-..." she trailed off. Shook her head. "Sorry."

Chris hadn't thought about Julian for a long time.

Or anyone else.

He dug his nails into his palm. Felt blood trickle down his hand.

"...sick, in Bulgaria."

Ivana had been speaking. He hadn't even realised. His ears were ringing, but couldn't tell if it was because of his tinnitus or the anxiety.

Both. It was likely both.

"What was your world like?" the actor asked.

Ivana sighed fondly. She smiled. "A utopia," she hummed. "Everything Earth could do right, merged into one. You wouldn't believe it even if you saw it."

Chris remembered the blaring neon city lights. How they'd all turn off at night, and they could stare up at their galaxy, their constellations. Clear nights were romantic, and people would dance in the streets. He and Ivana would climb up to the roof and sit, their legs hanging over the edge, as celebrations raged on below. Fairylights hung over the railing of their balcony, Ivana's potted plants dancing in the breeze.

When it rained, they sat inside, behind the glass door, and watched the water-droplets trickle down.

They were on their honeymoon when they disappeared.

Touring an exhibition.

Ivana said it was _fascinating. _Chris just liked to hear her ramble. And then, blinding light.

They'd probably be dead if it weren't for the technology that came with them.

How convenient.

"I remember the gardens. There was a library, a gorgeous library, and at the centre, there was a beautiful garden you could sit in and read. And there was a pond, with fish, you could watch them swim all day." Ivana sighed wistfully. Her grip on Chris' hand tightened. "I miss it."

"It sounds amazing," the actor breathed.

"It was."

He would sit at his sister's piano on visits. She would teach him something to play, fussing over every wrong note. And then, late in the evening, he'd play it to Ivana, and she'd smile and clap. Then at night, they would cuddle, and it was just them. Them and the world.

And then it fucking changed.

Chris felt his breath hitch. He swallowed, pushing away the emotions threatening to rise in his chest.

The Mandalorian was staring at him. Chris bit the inside of his mouth. Blood.

He tore his eyes away. The Mandalorian continued staring, and Chris tried to ignore it, but it was _difficult _when the bastard was boring holes into your skull.

There was a brief stretch of silence. Chris took it.

"Mr. Pascal," he began. The actor flinched. "Would it be alright if I had a moment to myself outside?"

The actor frowned. "Sure. Yeah."

Chris forced a smile. He got quietly up from his seat, reluctantly letting go of Ivana's hand and waving awkwardly to her.

"Be back in a moment," he murmured. And stepped out into the front yard.

He released a breath as the door clicked closed behind him. He brought up a hand to his chest, resting it over his heart and feeling it beat. _Too fast._

He ran a hand through the knots in his hair, breathing deeply and willing his heartbeat to slow, but he only felt it go faster, and faster. He collapsed against the wall, feeling the cold surface press against the side of his face and his arm.

_Shit. Fuck._

His vision tilted, and he shut his eyes tight, using the wall to keep him upright. He was breathing too fast, much too fast, he needed to _slow down, _just _breathe, calm down, please, don't do this, not here-_

" 'Bastard with issues', huh?"

Chris jumped. His head snapped towards the voice, only to see the actor standing just a few feet away, staring out into the yard and his arms crossed over his torso.

"What?" Chris breathed.

" 'Bastard with issues' you said. Is that how you view yourself?"

Christopher towered over Pascal, but even so, he couldn't help but feel a spike of fear every time he saw the man. The actor wasn't even particularly intimidating. He appeared warm and kind, like James.

Maybe it wasn't fear. Maybe it was just guilt.

That made more sense.

"Why are you so adamant to talk to me?" Chris asked quietly, pushing himself up against the wall.

Pascal sighed. "Curiosity. Maybe. I don't know." He ducked his head, hiding his expression. "I have no idea. I mean, you shot me."

_I'm so sorry._

"I was surprised to hear that you'd allowed for us to visit," Chris said. "I was expecting... well." He averted his gaze to the yard. Shivered. Suddenly wished he'd worn a jacket. "I don't- I don't really know what I was expecting."

_I've learned not to expect anything._

"I was surprised too," said the actor. "I was really pissed off when Pershing played that message. I was thinking- I was thinking, how _dare _he, how _dare _this man ask to come into my home, after taking so much already."

_I'm so fucking sorry._

"I was considering staying behind and letting Ivana do all the talking. Would you have preferred that?" Chris paused for a moment, thinking. "Would you prefer if I leave?"

He turned his gaze back over to the actor, and saw that Pascal was already looking at him with furrowed eyebrows.

"I could tell you to go, right now," Pascal said. "I definitely could. And you would, I know you would. And I would feel safer. And so would Din."

"Why don't you, then?"

"I don't know. I don't want to." He sighed. "Maybe I want to give second chances. I don't know."

_I don't deserve a second chance._

A gentle breeze drifted over them. A couple of birds landed gracefully on the fence, and another flew just overhead.

Such a peaceful day.

It was sickening.

"Pershing said that you're a 'complicated man'."

Chris hummed. "Did he?"

"Why does he say that?"

"Well." Chris sighed. "Everybody has their complications. Perhaps what he means is, that... my complications are on a much wider scale."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning..."

_Meaning I was diagnosed with anxiety at twelve? Meaning I was diagnosed with major depression at sixteen? Meaning I've spent my entire life suffering at the hand of my own mental instability? Meaning I've spent ten years in this shithole dimension without any professional support for my physical and psychological needs?_

"...I don't know," Chris shrugged. "A lot of shit going on up here." He chuckled bitterly as he gestured to his forehead.

The actor sighed, but didn't say anything.

They just stood, on the front porch, watching the breeze make the leaves flutter in the wind. Watching birds fly, and listening to their melodic whistle. Cars driving by, passengers paying no mind to either of them.

"Can I see your shoulder?"

Chris found himself asking before he could think better of it. If Pascal's sharp intake of breath was any indication, it had been a mistake.

"_Why_?" the actor asked with an accusing tone.

_No turning back now, right?_

_Fucking moron._

"I just thought... that..." _where are you even taking this? _"...I'd like to see..." _he thinks you want to admire your work. _"...what I did."

"Did you even stop to think for a fucking _second _when you asked that?"

"Not really."

"And what about when you fucking shot me? Did you think then?"

Bile rose to the back of Chris' throat. He kept his mouth firmly shut, not wanting to risk speaking, in case the nausea got the better of him. The last thing he needed was to throw up on the actor's porch.

_It's not like I wanted this._

_Look at me. Do you seriously think I wanted to shoot you?_

_What would be the point in that?_

And yet.

"Did you?" the actor insisted sharply.

Chris ducked his head. He forced a harsh exhale through his nose, wishing so badly that he could grasp onto Ivana's hand again, and feel the contrast of the cold wedding band against her warm skin.

So warm. So comforting.

She was neither of those when he came back with the actor in his arms, frantically calling for the first aid kit.

_"What did you do?!"_ she'd screamed.

Neither of them spoke for the entire operation. At some point, Christopher remembered his hands shaking so bad that he needed to let Ivana take over. He remembered collapsing into the chair and picking the gun up from the table, holding it in his hand, feeling how heavy it was.

_For emergencies, _he'd said. _Just emergencies._

Yeah. Look how that turned out.

He'd never seen the doctor so angry. A deep and disturbing rage. Witnessing the dimensional effects on _his_ brain was a rarity.

"Can't say that I did," Chris rasped.

"That just how you- you go about your whole life, then? Making stupid fucking decisions? Not stopping to think about the consequences?"

"Yeah, basically." Chris chuckled to himself.

"Is something _funny_?"

"Everything is funny when you're fucking crazy enough."

The actor stared at him incredulously.

He arranged his face back into a neutral expression, nodding at the actor.

"What happened to your arm?"

The actor peered down at his forearm, which was wrapped in a small bandage. He sighed.

"I'll answer that if you tell me why you're littered with bruises."

Chris clenched his jaw. He forced a smile, pointedly deciding not to respond.

_He knows too much already. Stop._

The actor opened his mouth to pry further, but just as he did so, the front door slammed open and the Mandalorian stepped out onto the porch.

"Are you guys done _flirting? _There's more shit to talk about."

He saw Ivana poke her head through the doorway, peering out from behind the Mandalorian. Her gaze met Chris', worry etched into her expression. Without another word, Chris sped back towards the house. He stared at the Mandalorian blocking the doorway before squeezing through the small space that was left between him and the door frame.

The house was just as stifling as before, with the heating turned up way too high and the air of tension cranked up to a hundred.

Samantha was in the exact same position as she had been previously, hunched over and trying to make herself appear small. The doctor, on the other hand, had completely disappeared from the room altogether.

_He always does that._

Before Chris had a chance to say anything, Pascal pushed past him, just barely grazing his arm as the actor practically stumbled through the room and down a corridor, eventually taking a left turn into a room that Chris assumed to be the bathroom.

In the process, of course, leaving Christopher, Ivana, Samantha, and the Mandalorian completely alone together.

Unbearable tension. Stifling. Slowly, Chris turned to face the Mandalorian, expecting a glare, but finding instead that the man was seated on the couch and completely focused in on something else entirely.

"Ten years," Djarin spoke suddenly.

Christopher bit his tongue.

"That's how long you've been here," the Mandalorian sighed. Then looked up. "How's the concussion?"

Chris heard Ivana cough behind her hand. He briefly considered completely ignoring the question, but decided that wouldn't garner him any favours.

"Nearly killed me, actually," he forced a smile. "Thanks for that."

"I didn't hit you that hard."

"You slammed your _heel _into the _back of my head_."

"I've done worse and people have survived."

"Yes, well." Chris gestured to himself. "I'm fragile."

"Yes, I can see that. How'd you get all those bruises? Trip and fell, did you?"

_Should've worn longer sleeves._

He kept forgetting about them. The bruises. It wasn't like they hurt. If you pressed down on them, sure, but in his day to day life it was like they weren't there at all.

Ivana cleared her throat. "I hope Pedro is alright. He seemed awfully upset."

The Mandalorian turned to glare at her, then sighed and shook his head, standing abruptly from the couch and stomping toward the kitchen. He pulled a small glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. He carefully placed it on the counter next to him, holding it by its rim as though it was boiling hot.

"He'll be fine," he grumbled, glaring at the wall opposite him.

"Ivana's right," Chris said. "He didn't look happy at all."

"Yes, well, must be a _side-effect _of spending too much time around _you._"

Chris bit the inside of his mouth. Tasted more blood. He clenched his fist, and felt his face grow hot, but he didn't say anything. Just turned back to Ivana, and Samantha, seated at the dining table. He pulled out a chair and sat by them.

"You doing alright?" he asked Samantha softly, lowering his voice to a whisper. She looked up slowly from where she sat, icy blue eyes meeting Chris' dark blue ones. Hesitantly, she nodded.

" 'M fine," she rasped. "Tired."

"We'll go back soon. We can all rest."

"You never said how you got here," the Mandalorian called from behind them. Chris inwardly groaned.

The chair screeched beneath him as he stood from it, turning to the Mandalorian and walking toward where the man stood.

"Give her a fucking break, why don't you?" he hissed. "You've been here for a little over two months. She's barely been here two _weeks._"

"She is here," the Mandalorian growled, "to answer _questions._"

"Questions have already been answered. We _told _you all we know. If you think we're_ stupid_ enough to withhold information then you need to take your ass ten paces backwards."

"You've been here ten fucking years."

"Yeah. Yeah, we have. And-" Chris sucked in a breath, "-and you know what most of those years were? Hm?" He stepped forward, clenching his fists. He glared down at the Mandalorian. "Trying to stay a-fucking-live. Trying to find enough money to eat for a single fucking day before going back to another month without any food at all. Living on the streets, doing illegal shit so that we could afford the right to _live._ I had to-"

Chris hesitated. His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. He dug his nails back into his palm, wincing as they met the already open wound.

"I had to learn how to shoot, because- because if I didn't, I'd be killed on the streets. So- so you know what? We didn't exactly have the _luxury _to figure out how or why we got here. You have a home, you have the actor to take care of you, to feed you, _babysit _you-"

"_Watch how you speak,_" the Mandalorian growled.

"You're fucking lucky, you never had to live like we did, you-"

"You think I've never been without a roof over my fucking head? You think I've spent my entire life with enough food to keep me above water? You think I haven't _struggled? _Don't talk to me about 'learning to shoot, woe is me' when I've spent two fucking decades _killing_ people to provide for an entire _community-_"

"Ivana nearly died- Pershing was nearly _killed, _he was-"

"_SHUT UP!_"

Everyone snapped their attention upward. There, standing by the railing and clutching it like their life depended on it, was the doctor, eyes puffy and brimmed red, his round glasses nowhere to be seen.

"Shut up," he hissed. "Stop fighting. That's _not _why we're all here. We've all dealt with shit. Pain isn't a fucking competition."

Chris still remembered the last time Pershing had broken down. It was vivid in his mind, like it had only just occurred - and yet, it must've been two years ago, at least.

He hadn't known what to do then. He still didn't.

This wasn't half as bad as that, at least.

"We're all tired. We're all sick of the Universes' _bullshit_ games," the doctor spat. "Yes, I was- I was homeless for two years, and-" he hesitated, momentarily stumbling over his words, "-and shit happened, during that time, and my experiences would mean _nothing _compared to Christopher's- but that doesn't matter, my feelings and experiences are as much as valid as his, and Ivana's, and- and Djarin's, and Duke's. The- the _point-_" he paused again, breathing heavily, "the _point _here is that none of us are alone, we're all at the mercy of this, and-"

He cut himself off abruptly, suddenly turning a violent shade of red. His hands left the railing, and he turned to go- but then the Mandalorian was running after him, yelling '_wait',_ and they both disappeared behind a door.

* * *

"Doctor?"

From the corner of his eye, Din saw Pershing poke his head out from behind the cupboard door. It was difficult to see him in the dark room, but he could tell, at least, that the man had been crying.

"I want to talk."

He disappeared back behind the cupboard. Din could vaguely hear the sound of him shuffling through something.

"I already know how you feel about me," the doctor spoke suddenly. "Please don't rub it in."

"What?"

Pershing reappeared, holding a new, fresh notebook that Din hadn't seen before. It was just as plain as the others. Yellow and cheap, with the brand-name written on the front in obnoxious block letters.

"I know you hate me. I know you want me gone."

He grabbed something off the bed, a small pen, avoiding glancing in Din's direction. He reached back into the cupboard and seemed to throw it into a small container.

"Are you _packing?_" Din asked.

"Like I said. I know you want me gone."

"But-"

"I'm going back with Christopher."

Din's stomach sank. He bit the inside of his mouth and clenched his fists into tight balls.

"Why?" he asked.

The doctor paused just as he was about to throw his jacket over his shoulder. He looked up at Din, finally meeting his gaze.

After a moment, Pershing shook his head and resumed his packing.

"They know me. I've spent three years with them. And... and they don't ignore me, so-"

" 'Ignore' ?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm thoroughly ignored. Not just by you, but by Pascal as well."

Pershing reached into the cupboard, then reemerged holding a small zip-lock bag and a container small enough to fit in a jacket pocket, but large enough to hold some small notebooks, which, it evidently did. A whole stack of them, bits of highlighted paper sticking out as though they'd been haphazardly shoved in.

Din tensed his jaw. "I'm not here to 'rub it in'," he said quietly.

"Then what?" Pershing stopped abruptly, belongings gathered in his arms. "What are you here for? If not to- to make me feel worse about myself than I already do."

Din opened his mouth to respond but found that no words came out. He tried again, but still nothing.

The doctor smiled. "Yeah," he said. "That's what I thought."

He moved toward the door. Shuffled past Din, and for a moment, he let him. Pershing was halfway through turning the door-knob before Din turned around and grabbed his arm.

"Don't leave."

Pershing's eyes were wide as he stared. Both of them refusing to make eye-contact.

"Please," he rasped, "please let go of my arm."

"Don't leave."

"I'm not going to. _Please _let go of my arm."

Din glanced downward at the doctor's arm. He saw and felt it shaking beneath his grasp. Swallowing harshly, he released his tight grip, and the doctor immediately began to caress his arm as though it were in great pain.

It probably was.

_You need to stop doing that, _Din thought to himself.

They stood in an awkward silence as the doctor nursed his arm, holding it close to his body.

Din cleared his throat. "I- I came up here to apologise."

Pershing stared at him with furrowed brows. "I don't understand."

"I've been treating you like shit. You haven't even done anything, but I still-"

"I was an Imperial. That's reason enough to mistrust me."

"No. No, you've already proven that you're trustworthy. Treating you like I do is... is unfair."

The doctor shook his head. "You're just saying that."

"No."

"You're just saying that so you can feel better about yourself. Not because you care about my wellbeing."

Din went to refute, but came up with nothing.

_He's right._

_Isn't he?_

"Even if that's true," Din began after a moment, "Even if that's true, please don't leave because of me. Or Pedro. I mean- I mean if you think you'll be happier, with Christopher, and that, then by all means, but- but don't leave because of me."

Pershing's shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes and ducked his head, hiding his expression. After a brief pause, he stumbled toward the bed and dumped all that he'd been holding back onto it. He sat down on the bed with a defeated sigh and slumped shoulders.

"You're saying that because you feel guilty," he mumbled.

"Maybe," Din mumbled in return.

There was a long stretch of silence. Pershing was nervously drumming his fingers on the inside of his thigh. Din stood awkwardly by the door, arms crossed protectively over his chest.

"What was-" Din paused, hesitating. "What was Christopher going to say? Before you cut him off?"

*****

The nervous tapping stopped abruptly. The silence suddenly became suffocating. Etched with tension and a deep terrifying emotion that Din couldn't put a name to if he tried. Pershing was visibly tense. His breathing was shallow and quick and uneven.

"I was assaulted."

It was barely above a whisper. Din had to strain his ears to hear it, even in the deafening silence. But it was definitely there, it has definitely been said.

"In what sense of the word?" Din asked softly, speaking slow. "Were you- attacked? Or-" He cut himself off.

Pershing changed his seated position so that one leg was crossed over the other. He still stared at the ground as he spoke in a shaky nasal voice.

"Better left unsaid."

*****

Din swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

There was another stretch of silence. Awkward. Neither of them knowing what to say. Din's thoughts racing in his mind.

He knew it was just guilt. He didn't actually care about the doctor, as much as he would've liked to feel that he did, if only to feel like a decent person. Din knew that it was guilt driving him, and nothing was going to change that.

"Please consider staying. Just think about it."

"Why do you suddenly care?" Pershing stared up at Din, fresh tears running down his face. "Just- just a day ago you would've been glad to see me go. You've hardly spared so much of a glance at me this entire time. Now you're- barging into my room, and asking me not to leave- what's the point? Why are you doing this? You don't care about me."

Din's arms fell to his side. He inhaled deeply, biting his lip.

"You're right," he said. "I don't. You're an Imperial. The Imps deserve what's coming for them. But-" he hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words, "...but I know that Pedro would take the blame, too. If you left. So- do please don't do that to him."

The doctor only continued to stare up at him. He'd open his mouth as if to say something, then seemingly change his mind and close it again, his frown deepening.

"You're..." he began, slowly, "You're guilt-tripping me."

Din's stomach sank all over again.

"No, no-" the doctor added quickly, "I'm not- trying to call you out, it's just strange, or, a bit funny, because, because, I was the same. I was the same as you are now. For a long time. I probably would have done what you're doing now, so, so it's strange seeing it from an outsider's perspective."

Din knelt down on the floor, so that he was on eye-level with Pershing.

"The same as me?"

"To quote Christopher, do you really think you're the only bastard with issues?"

"Well- well how did you get better?"

The doctor sighed and closed his eyes. "Support. Sometimes I fall back into it. But I can recognise it, I know what it feels like. So I can pull myself out, in a way." He chuckled. "I told Ivana to slap my arm as hard as she could whenever I stepped out of line."

"Did she?"

Instead of responding, the doctor rolled up his left sleeve, exposing a deep yellow bruise covering a third of his arm.

Din winced. "She did that? With her _hand_?"

"No, she usually used whatever she was holding at the time. I told her not to hold back, so it's fine."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"Not so much anymore."

Din shuffled a bit closer, peering over at the arm.

"Bruises only last two weeks. You've been here at least three."

Pershing sighed again. "_Mild _bruises last two weeks. This is not mild."

"Well, shouldn't you see a-..."

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Right," Din mumbled. "Yeah."

Pershing unrolled his sleeve, dropping his arms in his lap. He stared down at the floor. They fell back into an uncomfortable silence.

Taking a deep breath, Din scrambled back to his feet, backing into the door and feeling for the handle.

"Leave if you want," he mumbled. "I won't make your choices for you. Not supposed to do that, so."

He turned toward the door and turned the handle. "Bye, Pershing," he said.

He was halfway out into the hall when the doctor spoke.

"Peri."

Din froze, then slowly turned around. "What?"

The doctor was still staring at the floor, tense and nervous.

"That's my name," he said quietly. "Peri Pershing."

Din tightened his grip on the doorknob.

"Goodbye, Peri," he said.

And he left.

* * *

The albino was sitting on the couch, now. Din had been watching her cautiously for the past ten minutes.

She wasn't like Christopher, or Ivana. She was quiet. She was uncertain. Her hair covered her eyes and she hunched over her shoulders. The jumper she wore looked expensive, and thick. She constantly picked at the cast on her wrist, as though she was self-conscious about it.

Against his better judgement, he sat next to her.

Not _immediately _next to her. Din sat on one end of the couch, and she sat on the other.

Pedro had yet to return from the bathroom, Peri was still in his room, and Christopher and Ivana had taken some time to themselves outside in the backyard.

Out of his peripheral, he saw Samantha's head turn towards him.

"Christopher calls you 'the Mandalorian'," she said quietly.

Her voice sounded almost sing-song, and at the same time, posh. She spoke each word as her life depended on them, with a specific emphasis.

"Yes, he does," Din mumbled in return.

"What does that mean?"

_Good question, _Din wanted to say. _Difficult to answer. What does being a Mandalorian mean to me?_

Instead, he shook his head. "I'm not a Mandalorian."

"But that's what he calls you."

"He's wrong."

He saw and felt her shuffle over to him. Soon enough she was sitting almost immediately next to him. Not too close, it wasn't invasive, but even so Din couldn't help but feel uncomfortable.

"Then why does he call you that?"

Din fiddled with a loose string on the hem of his sleeve.

"I _was _a Mandalorian. Not anymore."

"Hm."

He saw her fiddling with her hair out the corner of his eye. She was weaving strands in and out, braiding it, but struggling slightly with the cast around her hand.

"So what's a Mandalorian, then?" she asked.

"They... are a people. Warriors. A creed. There is the Way, and in order to be a Mandalorian, you must follow it."

"Did you stop following it?"

Din pulled his sleeves over his hands. "Yeah."

"What rule did you break?"

_Questions. Why so many questions?_

Din bit the inside of his mouth. "I showed my face."

She suddenly appeared in his peripheral, her pale face and icy eyes staring right at him. Her eyebrows were furrowed.

"What, so your creed says you can't show your face? At all?"

Din tried to look away, avoid looking at her eyes, but every time he did she would only move into his view again, frowning.

"What'd you even use to hide it?"

"A helmet."

Din pushed against the side of the couch and brought his knees up to his chest. Finally, finally, the woman gave up trying to make eye-contact.

"What type of helmet, then?" she said with a sigh.

Din glared down at the floor. "Just a helmet," he grumbled.

Samantha huffed. They fell into silence. She continued to braid her hair, and as she did so, Din thought about how Omera would put hers into a braid, as well. He watched from the corner of his eye.

"So," she began, breaking the silence once more, "Why does 'the way' say you can't show your face?"

Din sighed. "It is the Way."

"Okay, but-"

"_It is the Way._"

"Fine. How long you been here, then?"

Din turned his head to glance properly at her. Her gaze remained situated on the television, seemingly staring at her reflection in the black screen.

"Little over two months," he said. "Not as long as Pershing. Or your friends."

She hummed, hands falling to her lap as she abandoned the braid halfway through.

"They're so different now," she said quietly.

Din turned his body so that he was fully facing her. "What was Christopher like?"

She glanced at him, then averted her gaze to the floor. She sighed deeply. "I'm probably not the best person to ask, but... he was... Christopher was everything that I never could be. Kind. Caring. You wouldn't believe it, how his smile could light up an entire room. He'd always been like that, ever since he was a kid, even with everything going on with him, he tried. He always tried so hard to make people happy. Through cracking jokes, or giving hugs, or just being... him." She hesitated. "I aspire for that. I always wanted to be like him. Kind of hurts that he's... more like me, now. Worse, even."

Din opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but as he did so, the door to the bathroom opened, and Pedro stepped out.

His head was hung low, but he didn't look any worse than he did before. Din scrambled off the couch, speeding toward him.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly. "You were in there for ages."

Pedro only shrugged, not saying anything at all as he walked into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water.

As if on cue, Christopher and Ivana reentered the house, clutching each other's hand.

"Mr Pascal," Ivana spoke, "Good to see you're back. We were thinking of leaving, get out of your hair..."

Surprisingly, Pedro only shrugged again, taking a long sip of the water and avoiding any eye contact. Din trudged into the kitchen after him, going to stand beside him.

"Samantha," Christopher called as he walked into the lounge room. "You good to go?"

She stood from the couch, brushing herself off and wringing her hands in front of her. She nodded.

Din watched as they packed the minuscule amount of belongings they'd brought with them. Before long they were standing by the door.

Christopher turned toward them at the last moment, just as Ivana stepped through the door.

"Thank you," he said. "Really. Thank you for allowing us to be here. I know that we..." he sighed, "I know that _I _don't deserve a second chance. So thank you, very, very much. For considering it."

Din spared a glance upward and saw Peri standing at the railing. But he didn't speak. No one said a word as they departed. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and, the unrelenting tension lifted.

Pedro exhaled shakily. "_Fuck._"

"Pedro?"

"Fucking... _stupid. _God. I'm so sorry." Pedro leaned against the counter and ran his hands over his face. "_Fuck. _I've- I've just been standing in the bathroom, for, for god knows how long. Just fucking panicking."

"Do you-?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine now. Just... he creeps me out. Bastard."

Peri had disappeared from the railing, having retreated back to his room. Pedro took a deep shaky breath.

"I need a nap," he mumbled. "Yeah. 'M gonna take a nap. You should, too..."

Mumbling to himself, he left the kitchen and moved up the stairs, eventually reaching the top then disappearing into his own room.

The house was quiet.

Din moved to the couch and sank into the cushions. His neck ached as he stared up at the ceiling, but felt he was too tired to move.

_I'll rest my eyes._


	27. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's a long way out to reach the sea  
But I'm sure I'll find you waiting there for me  
And by the time I blink, I'll see your wild arms swinging  
Just to meet me in the middle of the road  
And you'll hold me like you'll never let me go  
And beside the salty water, I could hold you close,  
But you are far too beautiful to love me

13th March 2020

It was raining. 

Not a good omen, really. But.

Pedro was fussing over everything. Din wanted to tell him there was no need, that everything was fine, that  _ he  _ was fine, but... if it gave the man comfort to fuss, then who was he to speak out against it?

"No one else should be there," Pedro repeated for the tenth time that evening. "Especially at night. Jon's worried that you-"

"I'll be fine."

"-'ll find something that upsets you, or something, so really, if-"

"I'll be  _ fine. _ "

"-you do feel upset just let me know and-"

" _ Pedro. _ "

Pedro's mouth snapped shut. "Right," he said. "You'll be fine. I know."

So they left the house. Got into the car. Sat in silence for a full thirty seconds before Pedro began to drive. 

Peri had elected not to come with them. Din wasn't about to complain about it, but he couldn't help but wonder why.

"Does Jon know about the doctor?" he asked, filling the silence.

Pedro sighed, then shook his head. "Not yet. He's had enough of crazy for now."

"...are you  _ going  _ to tell him?"

"Maybe. I don't know. He's got so much on his plate. All of us get to go home but he has to monitor post-production and shit."

Din stared out the window of the car. He watched the houses fly by, slowly turning into shops as they got closer and closer to the inner city. The concrete was almost sparkling, combined with the downpour and the street-lamps.

"What's post-production?" he asked absent-mindedly.

"Like, special effects. We don't actually  _ have  _ real blasters. They need to add the sound and the lasers. Do the CGI, lighting, that sort of stuff."

"Jon does that?"

"No. There's a team. He oversees them and the entire process."

Din hummed. "A lot of people work on this?"

"Disney spends fifteen  _ million  _ dollars on each episode, so, yeah. A lot of people working on it."

After some time, the car pulled into the carpark. It was pitch black now, the only light illuminating their surroundings was the moon, the carpark being situated so far away from the street.

Din, without waiting for Pedro, pushed the car door open and stepped into the pouring rain. He swiftly pulled the hood of his jacket over his head.

Pedro was already crossing the carpark by the time Din had shut the door. He sighed, hugging himself and trudging after him.

The studio looked different at night. It was almost comforting, in a very strange way. The entire building shrouded in darkness and rain. Treading through puddles felt unusually homely, and, if Din focused hard enough, he could almost imagine walking through a marketplace on a rainy night, in search of his bounty.

And then the lights flickered on, and his imagination was broken.

Pedro pounded on the door, trying to fit as much under the roof's overhang as he could manage. Din stood just behind him with his arms crossed protectively over his chest and his hood pulled so far down over his head that it was covering the majority of his vision.

The door suddenly opened with a screech. They were both ushered inside, the door closing behind them and the rain being instantly muffled by the thick walls.

"This rain," Jon sighed. "If I'd known..."

"No, don't worry about it," Pedro responded quickly. "It's fine. Ah-" He turned abruptly to Din. "D'you wanna take that off? It's all wet."

Din hesitated for a moment. He pulled the hoodie back slightly so he could see more of his surroundings. Jon was wearing  _ slippers,  _ of all things, but, he supposed, when you worked so late at night, who could blame him. 

Not bothering to look up at Jon's or Pedro's face, he quickly shrugged the jacket off, folding it into a very tight bundle and clutching it in his hand. He knew that holding it like that would only begin to hurt later down the line, but found he didn't really care.

Without speaking, Jon began to lead them down the corridor. It was the same one as the last time, only all the doors were closed and likely locked for the night.

The corridor came to an abrupt end at the doorway, and Din took a deep harsh breath.

"This was a really last-minute thing, so I'm sorry if it's a bit messy," Jon murmured. He fumbled with a set of keys for a moment, then eventually sticking one of them into the keyhole and pushing open the door.

It creaked open slowly, revealing a very dark room, before Jon reached inside and flicked on a switch. The entire room lit up, a few of the lights flickering for a moment.

It was surprisingly empty. Din had been expecting all the grandeur from his last visit, but they had finished filming, so he supposed it only made sense to pack everything up. It was all white, now.

Even the table they sat at last time had been packed away.

"It's not much to look at right now, but the costume department hasn't packed up yet..."

Jon led them across the room, to another door that, this time, was not locked. He pushed it open and flicked on the light.

It wasn't a very large or impressive room. Compared to the one they were just in, it was rather small. But even so, Din couldn't help but gape. There were rows and rows of clothing, armour, weaponry. Sewing machines and spraypaints sitting on tables, bits of paper strewn about everywhere, with design concepts for aliens. There were pictures pinned to a corkboard of actors wearing - what he  _ assumed  _ to be - prosthetics and makeup.

Din walked forwards into the room, in between the rows of costumes. He went to reach out, to touch them, but changed his mind at the last moment, deciding that it was probably best to keep his hands to himself.

And then Jon was beside him, reaching into the rack and shuffling through all the costumes.

"This should all be the background character stuff," he murmured. "You know, people you see in the-"

"Background, yes. I get it, thanks." Din found himself speaking before he could think better of it. It was the first time he'd spoken at all since their arrival.

"Uh, yeah. If you wanna see like, the  _ main  _ stuff- do- do you want to see Pedro's costume?"

Din turned over to where Pedro was standing, a few feet to the left and pretending to look through some papers as he eavesdropped.

He turned back to Jon.

"Sure," he mumbled. "Why not."

He could see the man biting back an excited grin as he began to lead Din around another corner, with more tables. Except, this time, they were brandished with a very specific set of armour.

His armour.

Or- no, no, it wasn't his armour. He knew it wasn't his armour, it just...  _ looked  _ like it was.

It was uncanny. The resemblance. Every marking, every stray dent.

Well.

He supposed it made sense.

Pedro was suddenly next to him, bearing a very large grin.

"Doesn't it look exactly the same?" Pedro sighed wistfully. "Imagine how _ I _ felt, seeing you wearing that on the day we met."

"It must've been... odd."

"Understatement of the century."

Din slowly stepped forward, approaching the armour. He looked back at Jon, wordlessly asking if he was allowed to touch it. Jon nodded.

So he turned back to it, reaching out with one shaky hand, before eventually landing on one of the vambraces.

"Hm."

"Hm?"

Pedro was beside him again, watching.

"It feels strange."

"Well, I couldn't wear an actual metal suit of armour."

"It's so light."

"D'you wanna see me with it on?"

"Wh-?"

But Pedro was already leaning over him, reaching for the helmet. He grabbed it, carefully lifting it up off the table and bringing it toward him, where he then proceeded to plonk it over his head.

"This is the way," he said, purposefully lowering his voice to a low grumble.

Din frowned. Then frowned deeper. He frowned so deep that his face began to hurt. "That's offensive," he said.

There was a muffled laugh from inside the helmet, then another as Pedro took it off. "Sorry," he chuckled. "Couldn't resist." He placed it carefully back on the table. At the sight of Din's expression, he sighed. "Come on. Have some fun. God knows we all need it. Ooh~ come look at this!"

* * *

It was... overwhelming.

All of it.

Yet, strangely, Din felt he didn't mind. Or... well. He  _ did  _ mind. He minded quite a lot, really, but he was managing, he was doing fine. Surprisingly fine. Surprisingly okay. As he explored more and more of the set, and the studio, and learned more and more about the technology, he felt the confusion and anxiety slowly melt away. He began asking questions, like,  _ how does this work?  _ And,  _ why do you need that? _

It was...

It was nice.

It was a distraction, if nothing else. A distraction from everything else. His thoughts weighing down on him every single day - he could take a break.

_ Peri would like this,  _ he found himself thinking. Then he frowned at himself and shook his head. No, he was sure there was a reason Peri didn't want to visit.

And then he frowned again, because... why did he  _ care? _

"Din?"

"Hm?"

He looked up from where he was standing, glancing over at Pedro, who was staring back with a sort of worried expression.

"Jon- Jon wants to know if... you wanted to see the kid."

His heart dropped to his stomach. 

Din felt his mouth dry and his throat tighten. He swallowed harshly, clenching his fist tightly around his rolled-up jacket.

"Um," he croaked.

_ I don't know. _

_ I don't know if I'm ready. _

_ I don't know if I can handle it. _

_ I don't know. _

"Sure," he said, finally, not feeling very sure at all. 

So he followed Jon and Pedro into another room, each step falling heavier than the last and a sense of dread slowly rising in his chest. A door creaked open, and a light flickered on, to reveal a small room, mostly barren. He could tell it was used to hold props. There were stray daggers and blasters sitting against walls or on tables. It had been all packed away, most things in boxes ready to be taken away until next time. All except... for...

...It looked lifeless. It looked  _ dead.  _ And while- while he  _ knew  _ it was just a prop, a puppet, an animatronic... looking at it, Din couldn't help but feel the urge to  _ scream  _ at what appeared to be a carcass of his kid. His  _ son. _

"Din? You don't have to stay. You don't have to do this."

He couldn't see anything through the tears brimming in his eyes, and he preferred it that way. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand to see him. The kid. So dead. So dead. So dead.

_ He's not dead. _

Din closed his eyes.

_ That's not the kid. _

He took a deep breath.

_ Calm down. _

"I'm okay," he said. "I'm okay." He forced his eyes open. Didn't bother to wipe away the tears. 

He stared at it. Stared into its eyes. After some time, he crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at it some more.

Looking at it  _ now...  _ didn't hurt as much as before. Well- it still- it still  _ hurt,  _ god, it fucking hurt - but it was okay. He'd be okay. It was nothing like before. He was okay.

He was okay.

"Din?"

"I'm fine," he replied immediately.

"You say that a lot even when it's not true."

Immediately Din's gaze snapped to Pedro's. He stared for a moment, before subtly glancing over at Jon and frowning.  _ Don't talk like that. Not around him. _

"I'm not lying," he said, slowly. "I'm just..." he turned back to the- the- the  _ not  _ kid _ .  _ "Getting used to it. I'm getting used to it."

Suddenly, Pedro was at his side, standing close enough that he could feel the breathing on his neck.

"You're definitely okay?" Pedro whispered.

"Yes," Din replied. "I, um..." He took a deep breath. "I think I need a moment. I'm  _ fine,  _ I just- where's the refresher?"

There was a brief moment of silence. He heard Jon shift his stance behind them.

"Around the corner," Pedro said after a moment. "You really sure you're-"

Din turned abruptly. He brought up his hands and rested them on Pedro's shoulders, staring down at Pedro's nose to avoid his eyes. "I'm fine. I just need a moment."

* * *

Pedro watched with a frown as Din left the room. He couldn't say the man was  _ lying-  _ in fact, it felt like the most truthful thing in a while, but even so, he couldn't help but feel concerned.

"Pedro?"

He didn't have long to linger on the worried thoughts, however.

"Yeah?" he hummed. Tore his gaze away from the door and instead looked over at Jon. "What's up?"

There was a tense silence. Jon was frowning. Then,

"I saw you in the tabloids."

_ Ah. _

_ Of course. _

"Is everything okay?"

He hadn't seen the newspapers. In fact, he'd been actively avoiding them. He knew he drew far too much attention at the convention. Din was too loud, too many people were staring. There was  _ going  _ to be issues. Still, he hadn't paid much mind, he thought, that, maybe, if he ignored it, and  _ all  _ social media, it would eventually just blow over.

But.

"Pedro? What happened?"

He sighed deeply. "Stuff and things. Convention didn't go well. I dunno, what d'you want me to say?"

"What about Omid?"

Pedro felt his stomach drop. His eyes widened. "What?" he asked hoarsely.

"That was...  _ Omid,  _ right? He was in the background. Of the photographs. Was he with you? Why was he-...?"

Jon trailed off at the sight of Pedro's expression, then, very suddenly, it seemed to dawn on him.

"...that was Doctor Pershing. Oh my god. When were you going to  _ tell  _ me? Are you  _ kidding?  _ This-" he stumbled over his words, seemingly unable to find the ones to express what he wanted to say. "But- you- are you going to tell Omid?"

Pedro sighed. "No. I don't know. Probably not? He doesn't  _ need  _ to-"

"But you realise how life-changing that'd probably be to him, right? I mean, you met him-"

"He has a kid, he doesn't need the extra stress..."

"Come on, wouldn't you want to know?"

Pedro froze. But he didn't have time to formulate a response, because just at that moment, the door slowly swung open, and Din stepped back in, looking more tired than he did before.

"You good?" Pedro asked. 

Din shrugged. "I'm really tired. Can we go back? Is that okay? This is all great, but it's overwhelming."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

So, after gathering their bearings, Jon led them back through the studio, and back to the carpark.

"Be safe," Jon muttered, just as they were exiting through the door. Pedro passed him a small smile, and that, it seemed, was that. 

* * *

It was strangely relaxing, being driven at night, in the rain. He didn't have to focus on anything. Everything they passed was just a big blur. After some time, Din felt his eyelids begin to droop, and his head begin to feel heavier and heavier.

It was the most relaxed he'd felt in... years. Din couldn't describe the feeling to save his life, but something about the sound of the rain hitting the car roof and watching the street-lights shine through bouts and bouts of pouring rain was very very comfortable.

It was nice feeling warm, while the outside world was cold. Knowing that he was safe, and secure, next to someone he trusted and cared for.

He began to feel almost guilty, in a way, for allowing himself to enjoy these few moments. But then, after considering it for a moment, found he didn't really mind at all.

He wanted it. He needed it. He wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to finally, finally find some peace - even if it was only for a moment. A fleeting second. 

Just as he was about to shut his eyes, take a deep breath, and drift off to sleep, something flashed in the corner of his eye. Something close to the road. What looked to be a cardboard box, and something inside it- but then it was gone, they'd passed it, he tried to find it through the rearview mirror but the rain was smothering his vision-

"Pedro," he said desperately, "Pedro, stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop the car. I saw something, stop the car!"

The car screeched to a halt, and before the damn thing had even fully stopped, Din pushed open the door and jumped out into the pouring rain. Any comfort he'd had was completely gone, and he was just  _ cold,  _ and  _ panicking,  _ but it didn't really matter to him anymore, because he  _ saw something- _

He was running on the concrete. Only faintly aware of Pedro sprinting after him. Din narrowly avoided skidding on the wet concrete as he came to an abrupt halt.

It  _ was  _ a cardboard box, titled on its side. Stuffed with blankets and a small bowl of what looked to be kibble.

He kneeled down just as Pedro appeared at his side, yelling what sounded like Spanish swearwords, with Din's name mixed in between them.

"The  _ fuck  _ are you doing?!" Pedro shouted.

Ignoring him, Din ducked his head so that he was peering inside it, and there it was, what he'd seen out of the corner of his eye.

A cat. A hairless cat - what were they called? Sphynx? A Sphynx cat?

It was cold, shivering. Soaking wet. Its claws were extended and its back was arched, hitting the top of the box. It hissed at him.

"Hey," Din said softly, even though, in the rain, he doubted he'd be heard at all. "Hey," he said again. "I won't hurt you." He reached out his hand, and it hissed again, backing up against the box even further. He vaguely registered Pedro yelling at him, but Din couldn't bring himself to care. Instead, he frantically shrugged off his jacket, then placed it over the box and over his head, so that if the cat chose to walk out, it would be protected from the rain.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly. "Hey? Cat? I won't hurt you."

It made a deep guttural yowl. Then hissed again.

"Did someone abandon you? Did someone leave you? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Let me help."

There was no collar. The kibble in the bowl was scarce and wet. Dirt had been dragged into the box and onto the blankets, and peering closer, Din could see a deep blue bruise situated on the cat's hind leg.

"Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?"

He saw Pedro's feet shuffle from the corner of his eye. Ignored it.

"I won't harm you, cat. I won't harm you."

Slowly, very slowly, he placed his hand within the box. Just rested it on the blanket, in a loose fist. The cat hissed again, then after some visible hesitation, leaned its head forward and sniffed it.

"See?" Din said. "See? I won't hurt you. I promise I won't hurt you."

There was another deep yowl, a mistrustful warning, but Din didn't waver. He would wait. He didn't care how long he had to sit in the rain for. Pedro could drive away for all he cared. He wasn't going to leave the cat. 

The cat leaned down to sniff his hand again, this time moving its paw to come closer. Its eyes were wide and they danced from side to side like it was weighing its options. And then, very suddenly, the cat stepped forward, limping as it began to approach Din's knees.

From the front, Din could see a bright red gash on the other side of the cat's body. A sense of rage rushed over him, but he didn't let himself show it. He would remain calm. He would. He needed to.

The cat sniffed at his legs, then after a moment, rubbed its forehead against them. It looked up at him, through its wide yellow eyes.

"Hi," Din said quietly. "Hi. Can I touch you? Cat? Can I touch you?"

He moved his other hand forward, and the cat visibly jumped, but didn't move away from him. Slowly, Din brought his hand up to the cats back and ran his hand down it, stopping just before the tail.

It yowled at the contact but didn't back away. Only continued to stare up at him with those big, big eyes. Wide and afraid.

How cold must it be? Without any fur?

How much pain was it in?

How long had it been abandoned, living on the streets?

The cat took more steps forward, still limping as it did so, and then, very hesitantly lifted its paw and began to climb up onto Din's knees.

"Hi," he said, as the cat stretched up to meet his face. "Hi."

" _ Meow. _ "

"I know. It hurts. And it's cold. I'm sorry."

" _ Meeoow. _ "

"I know. I'm so sorry. Will you let me help? Can I help?"

And then, as though the cat could understand him, it draped its front two paws over his shoulder, resting its hind legs on his abdomen. Slowly Din reached over to the jacket covering the both of them and moved it from the box, then draped it completely over the cat. There was a meow, but no move to scramble away.

Din stood, holding tightly onto the cat in his arms. It was shivering, it was so cold, but at least it was covered, and soon, it would be warm again.

Shivering meant it didn't have hypothermia. The gash didn't look deep, but it could be infected, Din wondered for a moment if the bacta would work on cats- but then mentally shook his head.

"Can we take it to a vet?" he turned to Pedro.  _ Please. Please.  _ "Can we? Please?"  _ Please. _

"Din, I'm-"  _ allergic,  _ was the end of that sentence. But then Pedro cut himself off, mouth hanging open for a moment before he sighed deeply.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay, yeah. Let's go."

With the cat’s claws digging into his skin, Din walked back over to the car, trying to walk quickly while also avoiding too much movement, anything that might jostle the cat, agitate it.

They got into the car. Pedro turned up the heating. Din didn't even bother trying to put on his seatbelt, knowing that with the cat attached to his torso, he wasn't likely to succeed.

After what felt like an hour-long drive, with panicked thoughts racing through Din's mind, the car stopped in a car park, just outside the only store still lit up in the area. Through the rain, he could vaguely see a sign that read '24/7 VETERINARY'.

Quickly, Din pushed open the car door, walking as fast as he possibly could to the door with Pedro trailing behind him.

They entered into the room, a wave of warmth rushing over them. The cat still shivered, still had its claws dug into Din's skin, but at least they were indoors. Somewhere warm. The cat could be helped.

No one else was around except for an old man sleeping in the waiting room.  _ Good. _

He let Pedro take the jacket draped over the cat away. Din showed the cat to the woman at the counter.

"I-I found it on the side of the street," Din trembled. "In- in a box. It was in a cardboard box. It's hurt. And cold."

So he watched as the cat was pried away from his hands, yowling desperately for its lost contact. He watched as it was taken into a room at the back, and watched as tired-looking highly caffeinated vets marched in, and watched as the door shut with a very loud bang, startling the old man awake.

He barely registered Pedro speaking to him at all. Just slumped into a chair, shaking and freezing cold. Hair caked to his forehead from the rain.

*****

Pedro was asking him something, still talking, but Din couldn't make it out at all. He just stared at the floor, his hands gripping the armrests so hard that it had begun to hurt. His vision spun, and he felt so heavy, and so exhausted, and his heart was beating so fast, and tears were blurring his sight, running down his face and into his mouth, tasting like salt.

"...in? Din?  _ Din? _ "

Pedro was on his knees, staring at Din with such concern. Wide eyes, like the cat.

"Din. Din, look at me. Look at me." Pedro took a deep breath. "The cat will be okay. The cat is fine. Okay? Din? Din? Can you hear me?"

He wanted to respond, but no matter how hard he tried, Din couldn't will his mouth to move and say that he was okay. He just thought about the cat, the poor cat, so cold, so cold, so cold.

"Din?"

How afraid? How alone? Was it sick? Would it be safe?

" _ Din.  _ Look at me.  _ Din? _ "

He wanted to say something, he  _ needed  _ to say something, to ease Pedro's worries, but it was like he was frozen, completely frozen-

*****

And then another voice, a different one, calm, warm, soft. Speaking slow, and quiet. There was someone else standing there, behind Pedro, getting closer and closer. Pedro looked up, then shuffled out of the way, allowing the figure to approach.

The figure got down on his knees, and Din could see who it was. The old man, the old man who had been asleep.

He had kind features. Soft. He had brown eyes and brown hair with a streak of blonde going through it, falling over his face and sitting behind half-moon glasses. He couldn't have been any older than sixty, and even then he appeared young enough to pass for fifty, yet somehow, he felt ancient.

"What's your name?" the old man asked.

Din swallowed harshly. "Din," he croaked.

"That's a nice name."

Din forced a small smile.

"I want you to do something for me, Din. I want you to tell me five things you can see, right now." 

He glanced hastily around the room, but the majority of it was just white, and empty.

"Um," he croaked, "The... the rain, outside, the rain."

"Good."

Din took a deep breath. "The newspapers. And the chairs. And... and... I see... I see my brother, and..." 

Pedro inhaled sharply. Din ignored it.

"...and I see a-a bell, on the counter."

"Good," the old man said, "Very good. Now, how about, five things you can hear?"

Hear. Hearing. What could he  _ hear? _

"The rain," he sniffed. "Again. And... and I hear... my voice. Does that count?"

"Of course."

"Okay. And I hear... some cars. Passing by, on the street. I can hear... I can... my heart. I can hear my heartbeat. And... and... I don't-"

"It's okay. You've named four. That's still good. How are you feeling?"

Din took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, then released the breath, slowly, feeling his heart-rate gradually decrease.

He opened his eyes again, to see the old man peering down at him, smiling softly and fondly.

"You're alright," the old man said. "You're alright. And so is your pet. Your pet will be alright."

Din didn't bother to correct him, and neither did Pedro.

"I need to go," said the old man. "Overstayed my welcome here, I'm afraid. But..." he reached into a pocket inside his jacket, then slowly brought out his hand. Din looked down and saw he was holding what looked to be a business card. The old man lowered his voice to a whisper. "I do online therapy. Consider it for me?"

Din stared at the card for a moment, frowning, then stared back up at the man, focusing on the brim of the man's glasses.

"Why?" he asked. 

The old man smiled sadly.

"I know a haunted man when I see one." 

And, without another word, the man picked up his walking-stick, and he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think this chapter is somewhat of a decent break.
> 
> Been super stressed lately, hopefully the feeling will pass soon. I apologise if next week's chapter is late. 
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	28. The Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing lasts forever  
Some things aren't meant to be  
But you'll never find the answers  
Until you set your old heart free

"I'm going to ask around, see if anyone knows the owner..."

Din pretended not to be listening as the vets spoke to each other in hushed tones.

"What if you can't find them?"

"We'll have to take her to the council."

"They'll just take her to a shelter."

"I know."

Din gripped the armrests of the chair. His face felt hot, and his lip hurt from biting it so hard. He wanted to see the cat, he wanted to make sure it - she? - would be okay. He needed to see it. He glanced in their direction, hoping, praying that they'd acknowledge him, but the vets had already disappeared into a different room.

"It'll be alright," Pedro spoke suddenly. "They'll take care of it."

Din ducked his head. "I know," he mumbled. "I just..."

_ They'll just take her to a shelter, is what they said. _

_ She won't last a week. They won't take care of her. Sphynx cats need maintenance, they need baths, they need so much. You can't just stick them in a cage. She'll freeze, she'll- _

"Din? Focus on me. Din?" 

He took a deep breath. Closed his eyes, reached out to the side, and grabbed for Pedro's hand. He felt it and held it tight.

"You're fucking freezing," Pedro sighed.

"Blame the weather, not me," Din responded with a forced chuckle. "Fucking hell."

"Do you want to go home?"

Din opened his eyes and cast a longing glance at the back door. He bit the inside of his mouth. He could still feel the claws digging into his skin as she clutched onto him for dear life, freezing cold and soaking wet.

"No," he croaked. "But I don't want to keep you..."

Pedro squeezed Din's hand. "I don't mind. Really."

"But it'll fuck up your sleep schedule, you-"

"I haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks. It's fine."

_ It's not fine. But me saying that makes me a hypocrite. _

Din sighed.

The rain had stopped. Strangely, Din found that he missed it. He normally didn't like the rain. It was loud, intrusive. On the Crest, it sounded like bullets were raining down on it, and it had always disrupted his sleep.

Watching it, though, from indoors, and listening as it gently pattered the roof, was comforting. So he missed it. The room was too quiet, now.

A young-looking man stepped into the waiting room with his gloved hands wrung in front of him.

"We're done with her," he said quietly. "There were more complications than we'd previously anticipated. I'm glad you brought her to us when you did."

Din spoke before he could think better of it. "Can I see her?"

The vet shook his head. "Not now. She needs rest."

Din sank further into his seat, suppressing a sad sigh. He averted his gaze to the floor.

"She'll be alright?" he muttered.

"Of course," said the vet. "Physically."

_ What happened to her? Is she okay? _

"What do you mean by 'complications'?" he vaguely heard Pedro asking.

"Well..."

The vet talked. Din listened, and the further the man went on, the more he wanted to cry.

_ Miscarriage. Lost her kittens.  _ All of them?  _ All of them. Abandoned.  _ How many kittens?  _ We think five, at the most. There might've been more. It was early... she'll re-absorb them... no surgery required…  _

"Well, well- what if-" Pedro paused, hesitating. He stumbled over his words for a moment. "What... what if we wanted to take her?"

Din's gaze snapped to Pedro, wide-eyed and frowning. "But you're allergic," he said.

"She's hairless, right?"

"Yes, but- but the allergen isn't necessarily in the  _ fur,  _ it's the saliva, and Sphynx cats do lick themselves, so-"

"How come you know so much about cats all of a sudden?"

Din smiled sheepishly. "I like cats."

"If..." the vet spoke, "if you wanted to legally adopt her, there'd be paperwork. But you don't  _ need  _ to legally adopt her to-"

"Can we just take her, then? When... she's healed." Pedro cocked his head to the side, bearing a sort of frown.

"Well, yes," said the vet matter-of-factly. "But your allergy might present a problem."

Din saw Pedro bite his lip. After a moment of silence, Pedro turned, looking at Din with wide-eyes.

"You want her, right?" he said. "I know she wants you. With the way she was clinging to you. D'you want a cat?"

"I-I mean-" Din hesitated, digging his nails into his palms. "I'd love one, but, you're  _ allergic _ -"

Pedro turned back to the vet. "How long will she need to rest for?"

"We'll need to keep her overnight in case of complications. If you want to look into adopting her, you should come back tomorrow. If you think the allergy will be an issue there's medication you can take." 

"Okay," Pedro hummed. "Thank you. Din?"

He bit the inside of his lip. Stared for a moment, weighing his options. A few times his eyes flickered to the back-door, where he knew the cat was being held, sleeping peacefully under anaesthetic.

"We should go home," Pedro said when Din didn't respond. "It's really late. We can come back tomorrow for the cat."

There wasn't much to be said. There was no point in arguing, neither of them wanted to sleep in the uncomfortable plastic chairs. So Din nodded, pulling himself to his feet and slipping his jacket hood over his head. He followed Pedro outside and back to the car, eventually sliding into the front seat with a sigh.

"I shouldn't have done that," he muttered.

"Done what?" Pedro asked as he started the car. 

"Made you worry. I wasn't really thinking, I just saw her on the side of the road... I needed to help."

"Hm."

"I should've explained before jumping out into the pouring rain. I heard you yelling. I'm sorry."

There was a small stretch of silence, then a defeated sigh.

"It's okay, Din. Really. I would've done the same." He grabbed onto the wheel. "Let's go home."

* * *

Pedro pulled the car into the driveway. The gravel crackled as the tires drove over them, before finally coming to a halt, and Pedro turned off the car.

He sat back in his seat and sighed. "Had no idea we'd be up so late," he mumbled. "What time is it? Must be at least four in the morning."

Silence. Pedro turned to Din, feeling concerned, only to find that the poor bastard had completely passed out. His head was tilted backward, resting on the seat's bolster, and his eyes moved back and forth underneath his eyelids.

_ Well. That's well and good, sleeping and all, but how are you expecting me to get you into the house? _

He didn't want to wake Din up, but at the same time, he couldn't just _leave _him there. He'd get a sore back and a stiff neck and that was the last thing anyone needed. But then, there was absolutely no way Pedro would be able to carry him, like a child. He'd fall and break both of their spines.

Which means he'd have to wake him up.

Slowly, Pedro reached over an arm. He readied his hand, then, holding his breath, tapped Din on the shoulder.

Din jolted awake, letting out a surprised yell, his hand flying to his side before he seemed to realise he didn't actually have his blaster. He glanced around frantically for a moment before his eyes eventually landed on Pedro, and his shoulders sagged.

"You scared the  _ shit _ out of me," he said quietly. 

"Sorry," Pedro said. "I just figured you'd want to sleep in an actual bed."

"Um." Din squinted. "Um, yeah. Probably." 

"I was gonna carry you but I don't think that'd end well for anyone."

Din chuckled then pushed open the car door, stepping out into the cold night air. Pedro followed him up to the door, where he fumbled through his keys -  _ not that one, no, not this one  _ \- before finally unlocking it and they entered into the house.

Pedro stumbled through the room searching for the light switch. He felt around the wall until he found it, then flicked it on. The lights flickered for a moment, before lighting up the room, and he released a sigh of relief.

"I thought I left these on," he said.

"Might've been Peri," Din replied with a yawn. "Probably... felt bad about leaving 'em on... because, light bills, 'n... shit.”

Pedro stared blankly for a moment.

"Peri?"

"Yeah, yeah, you know... doctor. You didn't know-?"

Pedro frowned and shook his head. 

"Shit," Din sighed. "Forget about it, then... fuck. I'm fucking exhausted."

"Yeah, I can tell. You should go to bed."

He was silent for a moment. He swayed on the spot, squinting, then shook his head.

"Can... I sleep with you? Again?"

"Oh."  _ Oh.  _ "If you want. Any... reason, or-?" He trailed off. Din only shrugged, then shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Okay. Okay, let's- let's go, then."

"I don't mean to make you uncomfortable-"

"No! No. I just wasn't expecting it."

They both got ready for bed, Din narrowly avoiding tripping over his own feet on the way to the bathroom, then finally both found themselves in Pedro's room, just about ready to collapse.

Din slowly slid under the covers, then pulled them up to his chest. Pedro leaned over to the lamp to switch it off. The room became engulfed in darkness, and, for the first time in a while, he felt rather comfortable. It was warm, despite the downpour of rain earlier, and the heavy covers were pleasant.

He rolled onto his side, facing Din. He could just barely see the faint outline of his face, which slowly grew more prominent as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

"You wanna talk for a bit?" Pedro asked. "Or you just wanna sleep?"

There was an audible yawn.

"Talkin’-sounds-fun," Din slurred. "Yeah."

"Mm. Any topics in mind?"

There was the sound of ruffling sheets as Din moved around before his head finally rested properly on the pillow.

"I've been readin' that book you gave me..."

"Oh, yeah? The Count of Monte Cristo? I've never read it, is it good?"

Another yawn, then a small, sad sigh.

" 'S sad."

"Oh."

There was silence like he was hesitating to say something.

"...It-it made me cry."

"Damn. That bad?"

Din chuckled. "It's good. You should read it when I'm done."

"If it can make you cry, it'll make me  _ sob _ . I'll pass. For now."

There was a soft scratching sound at the door. Pedro turned his head toward it, squinting through the darkness.

"Edgar," he sighed. "He likes sleeping with me. I would let him in, but..."

"I don't mind," Din said quickly.

"You sure? He'll probably give up in like, five minutes anyway."

"Yeah. Yeah, I don't mind." 

So Pedro threw back the covers, then slid off the bed, getting to his feet and stretching. He moved toward the door and twisted the knob. Before it was even properly open, Edgar squeezed his way through the crack, bounding through Pedro's legs and up onto the bed. He paid almost no mind to Din as he curled up where Pedro had just been lying. 

"Silly dog," Pedro muttered. He moved back toward the bed, then, slowly, pushed Edgar into the centre. The dog whined, but didn't move away, and instead rested his head back on his paws.

Pedro slid back onto the bed and dragged the covers back over him, pulling them up to his shoulders. Resting his head back on the pillow, he looked over at Din, who was seemingly transfixed on the dog now sandwiched between them.

"What made you decide to get a dog?" he asked suddenly. His voice was quiet, and almost hoarse, likely -  _ hopefully  _ \- because of the exhaustion.

"The company, mostly. I lived on my own before you got here, and never had time for relationships."

"Hm."

Din's eyelids were half-closed. He was fighting sleep, then- but why? Wasn't he exhausted? 

Pedro saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced down, and saw, with utmost delight, that Din was, seemingly, absentmindedly running his hand over Edgar's back. He chose not to mention it, mostly in fear that he'd stop. Din had been so reluctant about Edgar at the beginning, and it's taken him a while to get used to the dog - he really was just a cat person, that much was obvious even from the beginning, but- 

"You really want her, don't you?"

"Hm?"

"The cat."

Din released a sad sigh. He moved his hand up to Edgar's ears and began to gently caress them. 

"...She reminds me of the kid."

Pedro reached out a hand, offering it wordlessly. Din took it, closing his eyes and burying his face deeper into the pillow.

"Does it hurt?" Pedro asked. "To look at her?"

After a moment, Din nodded.

"I want to protect her. I think- I think I feel that, since I can't protect the kid, since I can't make sure he's okay- the cat is the next best thing. Not really a replacement, but- I think..." he hesitated, "...I think I'm coming to terms with the fact, that, I might never see the kid again. I mean, I'd already thought about it, but it's always been an 'in-the-moment' thing. I've been trying to think further ahead. If I can't see him again,  _ ever,  _ then... then I need to move on. And I think the cat will help, with that. It hurts, it's going to hurt, it's _ always  _ going to hurt, especially knowing what could happen to him without me, but- but- if there's nothing I can do- if there's  _ nothing-  _ then I can't let myself wallow about it." He shook his head. "I can't. If I do I'll rot."

Pedro hummed. He closed his own eyes, taking a deep breath.

"What about the therapist, then? That old man."

"Dr. Robert Garrison."

"You know his name?"

" 'S on his business card. And- I don't know. He didn't know who you were, but I don't want to risk-"

"Din." Pedro opened his eyes and was immediately met with Din's, who then quickly averted his gaze to his chin. "I don't care if people think that I'm doing therapy. Even if I was, it wouldn't matter. Who cares? Loads of people need it, and that  _ includes _ celebrities, even if there's nothing specifically 'wrong'. Din, it's not something you should be ashamed of. You or anyone else."

"Others might think otherwise, though."

"So what? Who cares what they think?"

"Pedro, have you  _ seen  _ the world you're in? Don't think I haven't read those articles. People are  _ not  _ shutting up about seeing us at that damn convention, and it's only getting worse with your silence on social media. People think something's wrong with you, they don't know who  _ I  _ am, and people have noticed that we look the same, even though you hid my face, and-"

"Calm down."

Din's mouth snapped shut. After a moment he took a deep shuddering breath.

"I don't want you to be affected by this," he said. "I know you don't care about it, but  _ I  _ care. I- I care about you. I get so  _ pissed off _ seeing everyone talking about you, online, like you're not a human being. They don't know you. They've never even met you, all they know is what they see on the internet."

"What people say or think doesn't affect me. At all. They can say whatever they fucking want, I don't care. Din, this is important, to you. Therapy, I mean. If people talk, then they can talk - whatever. That doesn't matter when it comes to your well-being. I want this for you, I want you to be happy."

"I want you to be happy, too."

"Then we can support each other. And one day, we'll both be happy."

"Can you promise that?"

Slowly, very slowly, Pedro reached out his other hand, and, when Din didn't object, he placed it over their already interlocking hands. 

"I can't promise anything. But if we both- if we both really, really try, then we'll get there. Okay?"

Silence, then,

"Okay."

They didn't speak again for the rest of the night. Sleep didn't necessarily come easy, but nonetheless, eventually, it did, and they slept until the sun was well over the horizon and far into the sky.

* * *

"She's resting right now."

Din stepped closer to the box -  _ incubator,  _ the vet had corrected him earlier,  _ it's keeping her warm _ \- that the cat was being held in. He ducked down slightly, peering through the glass, at the cat whose eyes were only half-closed. He saw her eyes move toward him, those beautiful yellow eyes, and all at once, they widened, and she immediately got to her feet.

"She recognises you," said the vet. "She must like you a lot."

Din didn't respond. He just brought up his hand and rested it on the glass. It was warm, but not in any uncomfortable way.  _ Must be nice in there,  _ he thought. 

The cat, to Din's surprise and pleasure, held up one paw and clawed at the spot where his hand rested, then meowed.

"My heart is melting," he sighed. "You hear that, cat? You've melted it. Congratulations."

"Truly a miracle," Pedro chuckled. He appeared suddenly at Din's side, bearing a small smile. The cat glanced at him, then back at Din, then back at Pedro, before finally landing on Din again.

" 'Oh, this human is identical to the other one!' " Din pitched his voice higher, imitating the cat. " ' How odd! ' "

"She's a posh old lady, hm?" 

"Yes."

The vet stepped closer, reaching for a button on the incubator. Suddenly the glass surface retracted, and almost instantaneously, without any hesitation, the cat practically leapt forward into Din's arms.

" _ Meow! _ "

Din stumbled backward, almost falling onto the floor, but managing to stay upright as he cradled the cat in his arms.

"Yeah, I'm happy to see you too-"

" _ Maaw! _ "

"Yes, hello-"

" _ MROW! _ " 

There was a very loud and sudden sneeze. Din whipped around to face the source of the sneeze, only to see Pedro buried in the nook of his elbow, eyebrows scrunched together. He sneezed again, then once more immediately afterwards.

"Christ," Pedro sniffed. "Sorry. Yeah, I was gonna ask about the medication? For the allergy?"

The vet nodded his head, almost solemnly. "We can't supply them ourselves, but, I have some recommendations-" he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "Take this to a pharmacist, they'll recommend the best option."

Pedro took the paper, scanned through the list of medication, then shoved it into his jeans pocket. His eyes were watery and seemed to be fighting back another sneeze.

The vet turned to Din and handed over a bottle and a small roll of bandages.

"Change those once a week. Spray the wound with the anti-septic. After a month, I'd like to see her back for a checkup. Let us know  _ immediately _ if it starts to smell, or turn a funny colour, or anything else happens that you think is unusual. Okay?" 

Din nodded, taking the anti-septic and the bandages. He then glanced down at the cat, and she looked back up.

_ Hey,  _ he thought.  _ You lost your kittens? I'm sorry. I lost my kid, too. But it's okay. We can get through this, can't we?  _

She stared up with those beautiful, wide yellow eyes, and Din couldn't help but smile.

_ We'll get through this. _

_ We will. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	29. Ringing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have made mistakes, I continue to make them  
The promises I've made, I continue to break them  
And all the doubts I've faced, I continue to face them  
But nothing is a waste if you learn from it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if my writing style changes halfway through it's because i unlocked the secrets to god himself

15th March 2020

It rang.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Din was tense. He was leaning so heavily on Pedro that for a moment, Pedro worried he was going to be pushed off the couch. The cat was in Din's lap, purring softly and curled into a ball.

It rang a fourth time. It connected on the fifth.

Din grabbed for Pedro's hand. He held it tight. Ran his fingers over the scars.

There was a loading screen. Static. Then, the old man's face filled the view, along with Pedro's and Din's at the bottom. 

The old man smiled.  _ "I'm glad you could make it," _ he said, his voice like honey and melted butter.  _ "Terribly sorry for being late. I just got done with another client." _

Pedro saw Din's gaze drop to the keyboard in the facecam. He wouldn't be talking, then.

"It's no problem," Pedro replied, suddenly feeling stiff and robotic.  _ What do I even say? _

_ "Well, I suppose we should get started." _ The old man shuffled through some papers on his desk.  _ "You know this already, but for courtesy's sake; hello, I'm Robert. Din would be the one on... my left, is that correct?" _

Din looked up for a moment, nodded, then looked back down.

_ "I hadn't realised you two were identical when we first met," _ Robert chuckled.  _ "Okay. Din. If you don't mind, I'm going to ask you some questions. They might be personal. Or they might not. But you're allowed to interrupt me at any time. If I'm making you uncomfortable, let me know. I want to do anything I can to ensure your happiness and well-being in these sessions. You can steer the conversation in any way you like. So, to get us started, in your mind, why would you say that you're here with me today?" _

The grip on his hand tightened. Pedro squeezed it, hoping, hoping that it would at least give some semblance of comfort.

_ "You don't have to talk," _ Robert spoke suddenly.  _ "That's alright. You don't have to tell me anything. That's alright too. You can sit in complete silence all day, if you like." _

Slowly, Din looked up. He stared at the screen through the hair covering his eyes. His eyes danced from side to side, like he was weighing his options.

He cleared his throat. "I'm here," he coughed, "I'm here because, because..." he paused, hesitating. Robert didn't interject. "I'm here because I need to be."

_ "Do you know why you need to be?" _

Din hesitated again. "Yes," he rasped. 

_ "Do you feel comfortable telling me about that?"  _

Pedro felt the sudden uprise in tension. Din leaned further into him, pressing against his side.

"Do I have to be?" he asked.

_ "Not at all. But that's something we can work towards in our sessions together, if you'd like." _

Slowly, Din nodded.

_ "Great," _ Robert smiled again, shifting in his chair.  _ "Agreeing to do these sessions and talk requires a great deal of courage. Have you ever been with a counsellor before today, Din?" _

Din shook his head. " 'S a new concept. For me."

_ "That's alright." _ Offscreen, Robert wrote a note.  _ "That's perfectly alright. Okay, a few more questions to kick us off. After this, I'd just like to get to know you better, and your brother too, if that's alright. So, Din, how would you describe your mood? Overall?" _

"Overall?"

_ "Yes. Happy? Sad? Distressed? Maybe even angry?" _

Din shuffled awkwardly. He looked down at the cat, releasing his grip on Pedro and instead using his hand to caress the cat's ears.

"Angry," he murmured. "Yeah."

_ "Okay. Alright." _ Robert wrote another quick note. Pedro could see Din eyeing the way Robert's hand moved.

_ "Okay, Din," _ Robert hummed after a moment.  _ "You and your brother, what would you say your relationship is like?" _

At this, Din paused, then turned to Pedro, asking wordlessly for him to do the talking instead.

"W-Well," Pedro began, clearing his throat, "I'd say that it's... good. We've had a few arguments but that's inevitable. Right?"

Din nodded.

_ "Of course," _ said Robert.  _ "Siblings are like that. Did you have a good childhood, growing up? What about your parents?" _

Everyone fell silent. Pedro's mind completely blanked, but he could see Din's racing, and the panic slowly becoming evident in his eyes.

"W-We- we were-" he stuttered, "It's- it's complicated. Be-because-"

"We were separated," Pedro blurted. He felt his face flush as all attention fell to him. "At- at birth. We had different childhoods."

Robert titled his head to the side and appeared to think. After a tense moment, he hummed, nodded, and took a note.

_ "Alright, then. I'll come back to that one later if that's alright with the both of you. Okay, Din, do you have a past history with... medication? Are you taking anything now?" _

Din made a face and shook his head. "No," he said firmly.

_ "Do you know if your family has a history of mental illness?" _

"...Not that I'm aware of.”

Pedro felt Din grabbing for his hand again. He took it, grasping it tightly. It was shaking.

_ "Okay. Alright, perfect." _ There was silence as Robert wrote some notes to the side. Finally, he spoke.  _ "That's perfect. Okay, Din, how comfortable would you feel if your brother left the room for a bit? Just for a few minutes, while I ask you some questions. Will that be alright?" _

Din visibly hesitated. His grip on Pedro's hand grew stronger, but then, he took a deep breath, and the grip relaxed.

"That's fine," he said quietly. "That'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Pedro asked. Din nodded, turning his head to face him.

"I'll be okay," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's just for a little bit."

So Pedro gave Din's hand one last squeeze before he reluctantly slid off the couch, slowly making his way to the next room over, then to the sliding door that led outside. He opened it and stepped into the cold air, suppressing a shiver as a gust of wind rushed over him. 

"Oh," came a voice. Pedro turned toward it and saw Pershing sitting on the grass, cross-legged, and Edgar pawing at his leg. "Is everything alright?" He picked up a stick that was on the ground then threw it some distance away. Edgar immediately bounded after it.

Pedro nodded. "He wanted to talk to Din for a bit. Probably some personal questions. Aren't you cold?"

Pershing looked down at his arms, which were bare, as his jacket was tied around his waist.

"A little," he said. "But I like the breeze. How about you?"

"Freezing," Pedro sighed. He stepped toward the doctor then knelt down in front of him just as Edgar returned with the stick in his mouth. Pershing took it, smiling softly, then threw it again. Edgar chased after it once more. "...So, how's life, then?"

Pershing glanced up from watching Edgar, who had abandoned the stick and was now proceeding to just dig a hole under a tree.

"Oh, um... same as- same as always, I suppose."

"Well, I don't know what your always is."

The doctor's expression momentarily darkened before he shook his head and it returned back to normal.

"Neither bad nor good," he murmured, turning his gaze back to Edgar.

"Stressed?"

He shrugged.

_ Hm. _

Pedro moved to a cross-legged position. "You look tired." At this, Pershing chuckled bitterly.

"I'm always tired."

"Do you have trouble with sleep?"

Pershing picked up a stick. He twirled it in his hand but didn't seem to be paying much attention to what he was doing. 

"You could say that," he said.

Pedro hesitated. "...Do you have nightmares?"

The stick fell back into the grass. Pershing's eyes were trained on the ground, and his head was bowed, but it was obvious even then that he was frowning and tense.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Pedro quickly added. Pershing shook his head.

"It's fine," he said. "I just wasn't expecting it." He looked up and met Pedro's eyes. They lingered there for a moment, just long enough to be able to see how exhausted he was. Even with tanned skin, the bags under his eyes were so prominent, especially now that he wasn't wearing his glasses and they were instead hooked on his shirt. "I don't... I don't have nightmares. I used to. They-they stopped about a year ago."

"That's good," Pedro said. "Right?" Again, Pershing shrugged.

Pedro decided to change the subject.

"Don't you need those glasses to see?"

"Hm? Oh." Pershing plucked the glasses off his shirt and held it in his hand. "Well. I-I do need glasses, but this prescription is outdated, now, I think... I get a headache when I wear them, so- so I stopped."

Looking closer, there was a crack in one of the lenses that ran along the entire middle of the lense. It was thick, and would likely be very distracting even if the prescription wasn't outdated. On the other side, there was a piece of tape covering a section of the frame, so he could only assume that at one point it had snapped and the only solution was to tape it back together.

"How long have you had those for?" Pedro asked. "Disregarding the last five years, though."

"Oh, well- before the dimensional hop? I'd say... shit, how old am I, wait a moment..."

Pershing stared down at his hands, muttering under his breath. A few times, he would stop, then shake his head and continue to mutter, until finally, he took a deep breath and looked up again.

"Five years ago I was thirty-seven, so I'd have had these glasses for just shy of three decades. About twenty-nine years."

"So you've had the  _ same pair of glasses  _ for thirty-four years?"

"...Yes?"

"I need to take a page from your book, I lose every pair I own!"

Pershing cracked a smile, but it felt dead and empty. It could've looked genuine if it weren't for how sullen and dulled his eyes were. They were brown mixed with hazel - much lighter than Omid's, as he was just now noticing - but still they felt grey and lifeless.

_ How long has he been like this? _

_ How many times have I looked at him and not noticed? _

_ Oh god, he's not okay. _

Pedro moved to speak, to say something, to say  _ anything,  _ but there was a ringing sound, like the sort you hear on old phones. And it was. Pershing flushed bright red as he fumbled for the phone buried in his pocket. He fished it out and, still flushed, stared at the caller's ID.

"...Christopher is calling me," he muttered. 

"You want me to leave?" Pedro gestured toward the door behind them. "I can-"

"No, it's okay! I don't want to inconvenience you. It's- I can put him on speaker. I'll just tell him that you're here too."

"Are you sure-?"

"Yes, it's okay..."

Pershing pressed the button to accept the call and immediately Christopher's voice filtered through, but Pershing cut him off quickly.

"Pascal's here as well!" he said loudly. "You're on speaker!"

Silence. Static. Even Edgar wasn't moving, either sensing the tension or wondering why everything had fallen so quiet.

_ "...I need to talk to you alone, doctor." _

A shiver ran down Pedro's spine. The bass in the man's voice could never cease to amaze and absolutely terrify him. It was almost paralysing, but not necessarily from fear; more something he couldn't quite describe. Perhaps it was how unnaturally soft and composed Christopher's voice was. It was a cold voice, it was unforgiving, but when he spoke he commanded everyone's attention. He was the main attraction without even  _ trying.  _ Even worse, or better depending on your view, it likely wasn't even intentional.

Pedro thought Pershing was going to get up and move away, or even ask him to leave, but instead he frowned and shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "No, I'm not going to keep any more secrets for you. You can say it here and now or not at all."

More silence, but this time, chilling. Pedro could feel the anger radiating from it. He could almost picture Christopher's expression; eyes wide, eyebrows drawn inward, mouth pulled into a deep frown and jaw clenched so tight that it could break. He could feel the man's blue eyes boring into the wall he was glaring at, as his grip on his phone grew tighter and tighter.

_ "Doctor, this isn't about what you think it is." _

This time, Pedro was sure that Pershing was going to get up and move away, but once again he did not, and instead he scowled.

"I'm sick of keeping secrets," he hissed.

_ "Doctor, this isn't..." _

And then there was hesitation. Christopher trailed off, and Pershing was glaring at the phone in his hand. There were sounds coming from the phone, almost like Christopher was shifting around, or walking from one place to another. Pacing?

But then there was a different voice. Distinctly female. He had passed the phone to Ivana.

_ "Peri. Please." _

And, apparently, that was all it took for Pershing's anger to melt away. For the scowl to be replaced by a look of deep concern and, to Pedro's dismay, tears filling the poor man's eyes.

He pressed a button and the call switched off from speaker. He held the phone up to his ear.

"Okay," he said, and said nothing else as he got up from the ground and walked back into the house. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


It was some time before Pedro was called back in. He played with Edgar in the meantime, before finding that he was too damn tired to do much of anything. Finally, though, after what felt like hours - but was surely only around ten minutes - Din poked his head into the yard and nodded, indicating that it was okay to come back inside.

Indoors, Pershing was nowhere to be found, and Din didn't mention him at all, so he didn't bother asking. He sat back down on the couch and Robert smiled at him.

_ "Sorry about that," _ he said.  _ "I think we're ready to wrap up now, though. I just wanted to ask before we do if you would be interested in scheduling an appointment for next week, Din?" _

Din looked tired. So very tired. Pedro couldn't see his eyes, but there were bags underneath them, and he was definitely shaking more than he was before, and he was biting the inside of his mouth like if he didn't he'd burst into tears.

"I don't have to continue?" he asked quietly. So uncertain.

_ "Not if you don't want to, no. It's very, very brave of you to want to do this, Din, but if you're not comfortable with these sessions then you have every right to stop at any point. I know a lot of the questions today were quite personal." _

Pedro couldn't help but wonder what exactly they'd talked about while he was outside. He wasn't about to pry and ask, but Din looked so shaken.  _ So shaken.  _ Pedro was sure, for a good few seconds, that Din would shake his head and abandon the therapy altogether, but he didn't. Instead, he nodded. Subtly, hesitantly, but it was still there.

"I want to continue," he muttered. Robert's face broke out into a wide grin.

_ "That's very brave, Din. I hope you know that. What day works for you? I'm busy on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and on Friday afternoons I'm not available either." _

"Could we do the same time next week?" Din asked. "On Sunday." 

_ "That should be perfect, yes! Okay, alright, that's good. I'm afraid I have to get going soon, so I'll end the session here. But I'd like to talk to your brother in private for a moment if that's alright?" _

They shared a glance. It was understandable that Robert would want to talk to  _ Din _ alone, but...

"That's fine," said Pedro.

So Din left. Carried the cat upstairs. No one spoke until there was the distinct sound of a door closing.

"...What did you want to talk about?" Pedro asked, slowly. "Is everything okay?"

Robert wasn't smiling, anymore. He no longer appeared warm and kind. Instead, he was stern and serious. He was frowning, and his hair, which had previously been covering his eyes, was pushed back over his forehead.

He spoke quietly.

_ "Peri Pershing lives with you?" _

Pedro felt his eyes widen. He balled his hands into fists in his lap so that his nails were digging into his palms. He shot a panicked glance at the door just peeking over the railing upstairs, knowing that Pershing was sitting inside, talking to Christopher or Ivana over the phone, or maybe even Sam.

_ "I knew him. _ " Robert interrupted Pedro's thoughts.  _ "I met him, a few years back. Is he okay?" _

Pedro brought his gaze back down to the screen. He tried to see through Robert's expression, find something else, but all he could see was deep concern.

"You- met him?" he croaked.

_ "On the streets. I would visit as often as I could, he never strayed from one spot, see, until- until one day he wasn't there anymore, and I thought... _ " Robert shook his head solemnly.  _ "I thought something happened. I was planning on taking him in, eventually, see, and I thought that I was too late. He's okay?" _

Pedro shot another glance over at the door. He almost wished that the doctor would step out, but that didn't happen.

"He's-"  _ fine,  _ he almost said. But that was a lie. Nothing about what he'd seen about the man was  _ fine.  _ "He's safe. He was living with some others for a while, but-"  _ Din decked them,  _ "-they got injured, so I took him in so he wouldn't have to pay rent on his own."

_ "I felt so terribly guilty, for the longest while. I thought I hadn't done enough, even though my husband always reassured me. But he's okay. He's okay. I'd quite like to see him, one day... I wonder if he would remember me...?" _

"I could ask."

_ "Could you? It's terribly unprofessional of me, this whole situation is awfully unorthodox. But your brother mentioned him and I simply had to ask, however as I understand it their relationship isn't necessarily the best, so I figured it might be wisest to ask you instead." _

The air of calmness and professionalism had melted away, and now Robert was running words out of his mouth so quickly that it was difficult to keep up. He was certainly different now, nothing at all like how he was when they first met. Yet, he somehow still managed to speak with poise and purpose.

"Yes, I'll... ask him."

_ "Thank you. Thank you very much. I'm afraid I must be off now, busy day, but... be sure to have a good long chat with your brother. He may need it. Thank you again. Goodbye." _

Robert's face disappeared. The call ended all too abruptly. Pedro was left in silence. He closed the laptop lid then sank into the couch, wishing he could just fall asleep then and there. But, Robert was right; he needed to talk to Din. So he got up and marched stiffly upstairs.

Din was sitting cross-legged on his bed. The cat was back in his lap. Her head turned toward the door when Pedro walked in, but then immediately she laid it down again, closing her eyes half-way.

"Is everything okay?" Pedro asked. Din looked up from where he sat. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, which they definitely hadn't been previously, but otherwise, he seemed mostly fine. He was shaking less, at least, and in fact, appeared to be a lot calmer than before. Perhaps the crying had done him some good.

"I'm okay," he sniffed. Ran a hand down the cat's back. "It was... a lot."

"Yeah. I figured it might've been overwhelming." Pedro sat down on the bed, sitting directly. opposite of Din. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

For a moment it seemed like Din was going to talk. He opened his mouth, and it hung there, but then it shut again and he shook his head.

"Okay. Are you tired?"

Pershing was suddenly in the back of Pedro's mind, and he couldn't help but feel that, he  _ needed  _ to check up on him, to make sure he was okay, but, god,  _ no, I'm exhausted. I just want to sleep. _

"A little." The cat buried her head under Din's leg. He smiled softly at it, continuing to pet her. "I was thinking of taking a nap."

"That sounds like a good idea." As if on cue, Pedro yawned. "Mind if I crash here for a bit? I don't think I can muster the energy to move."

Din plucked the cat from his legs. She meowed as he placed her down on the bed. He lay down, then, resting his head on the pillow and letting the cat snuggle up to his chest. Taking the hint, Pedro shuffled forward and lay down as well.

He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	30. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was young and naive  
As I was told, so I believed  
And I was told there's only one road that leads you home  
And the truth was a cave on the mountainside  
And I'd seek it out until the day I died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy reading this clusterfuck as much as i enjoyed writing it!

16th March 2020

The door creaked open. Pedro peered in, just barely poking his head through.

"...Pershing?" he called. The doctor appeared suddenly from behind the cupboard door, wearing no jacket and his glasses resting on the top of his head.

"Pascal," he breathed, "Um, sorry. I was just..." He stepped out from the cupboard, and Pedro saw that he was carrying a collection of notebooks, all stacked on top of each other. "Organising. Yes? Did you need something...?"

Pedro bit his lip. He knew what he  _ wanted  _ to say, it was just a matter of saying it. Pershing was staring at him expectantly, and seemingly only started to grow agitated when the silence dragged on.

"Um," Pedro croaked. "Just checking up on you."

Pershing's head ducked. "I see."

He disappeared back behind the cupboard door. There was the sound of the notebooks being dropped into a tub, then a sigh. He reappeared with the glasses situated back over his eyes.

"I'm fine."

Pedro glanced down at the floor, then moved his gaze to the bed. He gestured to it. "Can I sit?"

The doctor shrugged. "Go ahead."

He approached the bed slowly, then sat down at the very edge, crossing one leg over the other. He stared at the floor for a moment, before turning to the doctor.

"Did you wanna leave the house? For a bit?"

Pershing immediately stopped all that he was doing. His gaze snapped toward Pedro, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. He opened his mouth, about to say something, then snapped shut again.

"Just," Pedro continued, "Because, I- you seem really stressed, and-" he trailed off, then sighed. He wasn't about to get anywhere by stammering over everything he said. "I know you've been feeling like shit, even if you're trying to hide it. So... so I want to help. Even just a little."

Pershing stared. He stared for so long that his eyes began to water, but even so he still didn't blink. 

After a minute of this, Pedro raised a hand and waved it in front of him.

Finally, the doctor blinked. He exhaled sharply, and Pedro realised he'd been holding his breath.

"Um," the doctor croaked. "I don't understand."

Pedro ducked his head. He drummed his fingers on his knee, biting the inside of his mouth as he thought about what to say.

"Well," he said after a moment, looking up again, "You've been working really hard. I know you're stressed. You deserve a break. I can take you anywhere you want, just for a day. We can go to the park, or get ice cream. Anything."

Pershing made a sound in his throat. Almost like a wince, or like something had stolen his words. He swallowed and bit his lip. Drew a shaky inhale.

"I'm-" Pershing began, but then immediately cut himself off, his mouth sitting open and his breathing becoming ragged. "I can't-"

"...We don't  _ have  _ to. It was just a suggestion.

The doctor's gaze fell to the floor. He crossed his arms over his chest, almost protectively, hunched over as though he were trying to make himself appear small. Every few seconds his weight would shift from one foot to the other.

Finally, after a long and tense moment, he cleared his throat.

"I would like that," he said simply. His voice was hoarse. Raspy. "I really- I  _ really  _ would, but- but I- but I don't understand  _ why... _ why not Djarin? He's-"

"He's asleep on the couch."

"But what if he wakes up? I-I fear that he might not take kindly to-"

"He doesn't take kindly to anything. I don't think he wants to leave the cat behind, anyway." 

And, to his utmost shock, Pershing shut his mouth, and nodded.

* * *

It had been unexpected.

If he was to be quite honest, he'd hardly even processed it at all. It was all a bit of a blur, from the time Pascal walked into the room to the point where they were out the front door.

The car ride was awkward. At first, Peri had refused at all to sit in the passenger's seat at the front. But then Pascal insisted, and he couldn't just say  _ no,  _ so, he found himself, in the end, sitting awkwardly in the front and staring very intently out the window as they drove further and further away from the house.

He'd notified Christopher just as the car began to move. He didn't really _ need _ to notify anyone; it was likely they already knew. But it was protocol, it had been for three years. 

_ Be safe,  _ was the reply he got. And nothing more after that.

The car stopped suddenly. Peri realised they'd already arrived.

"What d'you wanna do?" Pascal asked.

"I'm not... sure," Peri replied. And it was the truth. He'd never had the time nor the luxury to do what  _ he  _ wanted, neither had anyone else. The only times he, Christopher, and Ivana ever really, properly talked was well into the night when they were all too exhausted to hold a decent conversation anyway.

Otherwise, it was work. Nothing but work. So much  _ stress.  _ Peri sitting at the desk and writing theories, Ivana on the constant search for anomalies, and Christopher searching for pay. That was  _ life  _ for the past three years.

"You wanna get something to eat? I know you haven't been eating much."

That was also unexpected. He hadn't expected Pascal to notice at all.

Truthfully, he was hungry very often. But he felt like such an invader in Pascal's home that he forced himself to ration, anyway. Besides, he'd faced worse.

"If you like," he muttered.

Pascal hummed. "Okay. But, what about what  _ you  _ like?"

Peri's phone buzzed. He decided to look at it later.

"I don't- I don't know. Just whatever. I'm fine with anything."

There was a brief pause. Peri wondered for a sickening moment if Pascal was just going to sigh and drive back home again. But that moment never came, and instead, he hummed.

"D'you want some new clothes?" 

_ Yes,  _ Peri almost exclaimed.  _ Gods, yes. Please.  _ Instead, he shrugged, his face heating up. "I'm- I'm okay with what I have-"

"That isn't what I asked, though. Okay; how about this. I'll book an appointment for a new prescription for your glasses. No, don't look at me like that, I  _ want  _ to do this for you."

Every ounce in Peri's body  _ wanted  _ to protest, he felt wrong by  _ not  _ protesting, but the look in Pascal's eyes was just enough,  _ just  _ enough for him to shut his mouth and nod.

He hated it. He _despised _it. Gods, yes, he appreciated all that was done for him, but being given a roof over his head was more than he could have ever asked for, and asking for any more than that felt disgusting. When Christopher and Ivana were hospitalised... he had been fully expecting to need to pay that month's rent all on his own. Yes, the prices for that place were damn cheap given how large it actually was, but the landlord - if you could call him that - was _not _forgiving. Thankfully... gods, _thankfully _Christopher and Ivana were discharged before the rent was due, but- but only by a few days. Even though Peri had been staying with Pascal, if no one was available to _pay- _Peri certainly didn't _have _the funds to- then-

He didn't want to dwell on it. They'd cut it so close far too many times. From what he'd gathered Christopher was finding decent jobs lately, which was great, it was brilliant, it meant he didn't have to worry, but even then they could barely afford food, and-

"-okay? Pershing?"

"Hm?"

There was deep concern in Pascal's eyes. He had a tight grip on Peri's arm. They were standing in the middle of a sidewalk, but Peri couldn't even remember getting out of the damn car. How long had they been walking for?

"You're crying. Why are you crying?" 

He brought up a hand to his face. It came away damp.

"Oh," he sniffled. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologise, please. What's wrong?"

"I was just- I was just thinking about... some stuff. It's fine. I'm okay, truly, it's just..." he trailed off, the words dying on his tongue. There were so many things he wanted to say, but how could he possibly put them into words? He wished he could. He wanted to talk to people. He could talk about the little things - which was a big improvement from a few years ago, so that was good, at least - but everything else, everything else was too much, it was overwhelming, it just made him want to hide-

" _ Pershing! _ "

He jumped. Pascal had both hands on his shoulders, now, and was even closer than before.  _ How long has he been yelling my name? _

"S-Sorry," Peri stammered. 

Pascal shook his head. "Please don't apologise. This is exactly why I'm doing this, I really think you need it, but if you're overwhelmed, please tell me. I know it was sudden and I know you're probably not used to being out-and-about like this. I will understand if you just want to leave."

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair how every ounce in Peri's body was screaming at him, screaming that he didn't deserve it, he didn't deserve to be happy, he didn't deserve the kindness, he didn't deserve to take a  _ fucking _ break.

But then Christopher's voice would play out in his mind. It had been so long ago, now, that moment, but he remembered kneeling on the floor, Christopher's arms wrapped around him, whispering affirmations as Peri sobbed into his shoulder. He remembered that question, after it all, he remembered what Christopher had asked him, with so much sincerity -  _ "What about you is so undeserving of kindness?" _

That damn question was his only saving grace.

Why? Why didn't he deserve it? What was so terrible about him that he didn't deserve happiness?

What was the point of shying away from it? Why did he hide?

And the answer was the same, every single time. With a scowl and bitter tears, the answer was always the same;  _ the Imperials. _

Because that was what they did. Right? Took you from your fucking home when you were too young to understand. 

It had taken him so, so,  _ so  _ long just to rid himself of the fear and hatred that had been instilled in him after decades of working for those fucking bastards. And still, their influence remained. Ate away at him. They would be the ones who screamed at you for having pride, and it still stuck to him like a parasite, even after five years of trying so very hard to kill it. It would hunt him and when he became too exhausted to continue he'd be dragged through the toxicity until he was too blinded to see anything else.

Christopher's question grounded him. It made him stop, and think.

_ "Why don't you deserve happiness? Why don't you deserve kindness? Why don't you deserve a break?" _

_ I do. I deserve it. I will take it. I will be grateful. _

"It's okay," he said. "I'm okay."

The hands dropped from Peri's shoulders. Pascal stared for a tense moment, eyebrows arched upward and mouth pulled into a deep frown, before he sighed and stepped back, allowing Peri some space.

"Please tell me if this becomes too much. Din doesn't say jack shit, and then he panics because of it. I don't want to force you to be here. I want you to be happy, and have fun." 

Peri sniffled. He wiped away the stray tears on his face with the back of his sleeve. Plucked the glasses off his face as a spike of pain shot through his forehead. 

"I'd like that," he said softly. "Very much."

They began to walk again, in silence. Peri had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, despite how hot and clammy they were beginning to feel. The weather was warmer than it had been for the last couple months, which meant the seasons were changing. He was looking forward to nicer weather, but... he'd never been one for the heat.

They entered, finally, into the shopping mall itself. Warm air rushed over them. It would have been pleasant a few days ago, but it only served to make Peri squirm from the uncomfortable warmth. He wanted to tear off his jacket and tie it around his waist but he hated being so bare in public.

Pascal stopped suddenly. Peri very narrowly avoided colliding with him, stopping himself just in time, his shoes squeaking on the tiled flooring. Pascal turned to him and gestured over at a distant shop.

"Ice cream?" he asked. "You've had ice cream before, yeah?"

Peri blinked. He glanced over at the shop, then back at Pascal.

"Once," he muttered. "But-"

"Come on. I'll treat ya."

Without warning, Pascal grabbed him by the sleeve and began to drag him over to the shop. They weaved through a small crowd of people before arriving at the entrance. It wasn't an incredibly impressive store, in fact it was rather small, but it was decorated in such a way that it sent a wave of calm over you. It looked exactly how you would expect a vintage ice cream shop to look like; baby-blue walls and wooden countertops, with high-chairs that spun on the spot. 

The air within the store was much less muggy than the rest of the shopping mall. Perhaps it was because of the significant decline in people to generate body heat, or the freezers working to keep the ice cream cold. Either way, it allowed Peri to take a deep breath.

But Pascal suddenly halted on his way to the counter. He turned to Peri once more, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Sorry," he said, "I didn't actually ask if you...  _ wanted  _ ice cream."

Peri raked his eyes over the counter, then looked back over at Pascal. He took his hands out of his pockets and instead held them in front of him, resting on his stomach. 

"I'd- I'd love it, but-"

_ You are deserving. _

Peri shook his head. "Nevermind. I'd love it." He paused. "Thank you."

A wide grin spread across Pascal's face. It was the most genuine smile Peri had seen in a long time, and he wished in that moment that he could pause time to marvel at it. Such a beautiful thing smiling was, when it was real. Forced smiles were ugly and painful. Noticeable. Yet still they occur from day to day because of the ridiculous unrelenting desire to conform-

"What flavour d’you want?"

Peri shrugged. "Surprise me," he said.

"You sure? Because I'll just get you what I'm getting."

_ I never had the luxury to develop tastes for these things. I don't have a preference. _

"I'm sure."

"Okay."

Pascal approached the counter. He glanced over the flavours, hummed to himself, then turned to the cashier behind the stand, smiling.

"Just two of the vanilla please, thank you." 

_ You don't need to play it safe.  _

"D'you want it in a cup or a cone?"

Peri quickly scanned the menu for the cheapest option. "Um, cup. Please. Thank you."

He crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at the grout in the tiling below his feet. It looked freshly cleaned. He wondered briefly what time the store usually opened, for the floors to still appear so tidy. Surely there'd be customers dragging in mud all day, or children dropping their cones. But it was stark white. The whole shop appeared rather clean. He would have expected to see hand-prints on the glass or stray stains on tables. Perhaps it was just that the store didn't get many customers. Maybe it was new. Which was ironic, given its vintage sixties aesthetic. It would be more fitting to call it a parlour, but-

"Pershing?"

Oh.

He'd gotten lost in thought again.

"Earth to the doctor?"

"Yes? Sorry. I was- I was just thinking."

"What about?"

Pascal sat in an empty seat facing away from the counter and toward the door. Peri hesitated for a second then sat opposite just as Pascal slid the cup toward him.

"Jus' stuff. I guess."

"How eloquent." 

Peri gave a half-hearted smile. He stared down at the cup. It was a small serving so he intended to savour it. It had been so long since he last had anything like ice cream. The previous time was during his first year with Christopher and Ivana, and it was a nastily hot day... they had spare change from a job, so Christopher decided to buy them all small cones…

That day had been pleasant. One of the few good memories. He remembered sitting in the shade, sandwiched in between his friends, watching as pedestrians strolled by on the sidewalk... He remembered the birds in the square, and dogs wagging their tails, and that one cat sitting under a bench, and the breeze, the clouds moving across the sky. He remembered, so very distinctly, finishing his cone and feeling drowsy, then, without thinking much better of it, leaning over to the right and resting his head against Christopher's shoulder.

And Christopher didn't shove him away.

And it was nice. It was... amazing. Genuinely and truly. He'd relive that moment over and over if he could.

He wished he could.

There had always been pleasant moments between him and them. Staying up late and talking absolute nonsense. Watching movies they found online, all huddled on the floor with Christopher's computer, one blanket draped over all three of them and pillows supporting their backs against the wall. Peri would always sit in the middle, it was almost like a protective instinct- it made him feel... it made him feel cared for, and loved, and he wouldn't trade it for the world.

And he'd always end up leaning on Christopher, by the end. 

And he never shoved him away. Never even mentioned it. Peri would fall asleep there and then he'd wake up in bed as the early morning sunrise filtered through the curtains, the gentle aroma of coffee in the air.

And he'd get up and find Christopher in the kitchen, humming a melancholy tune to no one except himself. 

"Pershing?"

...Lost in thought.

Again.

"Sorry," Peri mumbled.

"Thinking again?"

He looked up at Pascal and was met with a look of deep concern. Eyebrows knit together and mouth pulled into a frown.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"No, don't apologise, you just- what were you thinking about?"

Peri stared back down at the cup which, he realised, was now empty. He must've finished it while he was lost in his thoughts, which meant... It had to have been five minutes, at least, or even ten.

"Jus' stuff. It's not important."  _ I'd prefer to keep it to myself, thank you. _

"You'll tell me if-?"

"Yes."

He hadn't intended to respond so quickly. Pascal hadn't even finished the sentence. But he'd heard it so many times already, from Christopher and especially Ivana, he'd grown to expect it. It had become a reflex. And it wasn't a lie. He always - he  _ always  _ said something if he really, truly believed he was too unfit to be walking about. It was either that or suffer _ . _

Pascal sighed. "Okay. Well. I want to book an optometrist appointment for you-"

"I really don't need it," Peri quickly interrupted. His face heated up as Pascal turned to him with a bewildered expression. "I- don't. I can see well enough."

"But your eyesight will get worse."

"It's been the same since I was young, it's fine-"

"Yeah, because you've been  _ wearing  _ the glasses. If you stop, then-"

"Really, it's unnecessary-"

"Let me do this for you." 

He looked... so... earnest. So genuine and true. That look in eyes that spoke magnitudes. He'd been nothing but kind, and understanding, to everyone around him. And Peri could see, now, that it wasn't just out of guilt or a sense of obligation, but because he genuinely and truly cared.

"...Thank you," said Peri. "I- really. Thank you."

So they left the store and began walking. It was a Monday, so the shopping mall was relatively quiet. Most were at work and the children were at school. It was pleasant. He was worried that it was going to be too busy, too loud, or even too quiet, in a deafening sense, but it was none of those things. It was good. It was nice.

"Why have you had the same glasses for so long?" Pascal asked out of the blue. "I mean, it was like... thirty-four years, right? That you've had them for? Which means... you were... eight _ . Eight! _ "

Peri smiled sheepishly. "I only started wearing them properly when I was thirteen. They belonged to my father."

"They're sentimental, then?"

"I suppose."

Pascal hummed. His walking pace slowed slightly, which Peri was grateful for, because he was... short. And struggling to keep up. Going anywhere with Christopher and Ivana was a nightmare because they'd always end up so far ahead and nearly leave him behind.

Christopher's apologetic chuckle was always worth it, though.

"Why did you have your dad's glasses?"

Peri hesitated but kept walking. It... wasn't like it completely bothered him anymore. Still, talking about it with anyone besides Christopher felt... odd.

"...The Imperials took me from my home. The glasses were the only thing I managed to take with me."

"I'm sorry."

Peri waved his hand dismissively. "It doesn't bother me anymore. I hardly remember much of them."

"Still. Losing your parents at such a young age. I can't imagine."

An image of his brother flashed in his mind. He blinked and it went away. 

"It was difficult. But tears don't get you anything where the Imperials are concerned. I was quickly able to move on."

"Mm."

Peri's phone buzzed in his pocket. He remembered suddenly the text from earlier which he'd decided not to check- in hindsight, he should've definitely looked at it and responded-

_ Christopher: which shopping centre you going to? _

_ Christopher: look behind u _

Peri frowned. He stopped walking, and so did Pascal. He vaguely registered him asking what was wrong as he turned around, scanning the area for what he should be looking at. Finally, he found it; Christopher, sitting at a table, phone and a book in hand, his hand raised in the air. 

"The fuck?" Pascal muttered.

"Um. I should- I should talk to him." Peri already felt his legs moving. "Sorry. I'll be back in a minute." He resisted breaking out into a sprint for the first few feet, but the adrenaline found its way to his head, and he began to run, gaining more and more speed. Christopher got up from the chair and just as he was standing Peri launched himself at him, arms outstretched. He was engulfed in a hug, breathing into Christopher's shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly. Christopher chuckled, and Peri felt it in his chest. He let go of the hug, standing back as a wave of emotion rushed over him.

"Missed you too," Christopher said softly. "I was already here when you arrived. Taking a break." He gestured to the book left on the table.

"That's good. That's- that's really good, you deserve it. Is everything-" he lowered his voice to a whisper, "is everything okay? Do you feel... okay?"

Chris sighed. He slumped back into the chair and ran a hand over his face. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I feel fine. Just tired. What about you? We- we haven't talked much. We need to talk more."

Peri took a seat on the other side of the table. He rested his forearms on the surface, leaning forward.

"Could be better, I suppose, but- but today has been nice. Pascal insisted... well, he wanted to take me here."

"I'm surprised you let him."

"Well- well... I thought that, I should. Because... I needed a break. And he was offering it. I'm grateful."

Christopher smiled. A true and genuine one.

Beautiful.

"You deserve it," he said. "I'm glad for you." He shot a glance over at Pascal, and the smile was replaced with his usual blank expression. He rested his hand on the table, and Peri stared at it, and the wedding band on his finger.

"I shouldn't keep you," Christopher said. "I don't want to interrupt your break."

Peri looked back up at him, shaking himself out of his thoughts. He felt his cheeks flush.

"It's- it's fine! I missed you. I really- it's okay. I'm glad you're here. I like talking to you. I want to talk to you."

Christopher took one look at him, then glanced down at his own hand. He looked up one more as he slowly retracted his hand and placed it back in his lap.

"I don't think it'd do well to make the actor worried," he muttered. "Even though he has no damn reason to be." He sighed deeply. "Shouldn't give him any more reasons not to like me."

"He knows you won't hurt me." Peri paused, hesitating. "...I hope. But, it's okay. I want to talk. I've- I want to talk."

Christopher tilted his head slightly to the side. He bore a sad expression and his eyes were filled with pity.

"Doctor, I really should go. We can talk later, alright? I'll call you."

"But it's not the  _ same. _ "

The desperation was evident in his voice, Peri knew this, but he couldn't just let this go, it had been too long, he just wanted to  _ talk-  _ he  _ needed  _ to talk-

But Christopher shook his head sadly. He got up from his chair. Took his book and his phone. He was barely a foot away from the seat when Peri called out, jumping from his chair and balling his hands into fists,

" _ Please! _ "

Christopher halted. Slowly, he turned around. He gave a sad, sad look. The same one he bore every time this happened. The same one he bore on that night when he asked why Peri had become so  _ clingy  _ all of a sudden and everything came spilling out of Peri's mouth. 

He took a step forward, and before he knew what was happening, he was enveloped in another hug.

He could stay there forever. It was so warm. It was such a comfort. But he knew he couldn't. He knew he had to leave at some point.

"You'll be okay, Peri," Christopher spoke into his ear. A chill ran down his spine. "I'm not going to disappear. We have so much more time. Please try to get over this. It's not healthy. I can't give you what you want." 

"I know," Peri spoke, his voice muffled by Christopher's shirt. "I know. I know."

"I have to go. Ivana will be getting worried. Go back to Pascal. Have a brilliant fucking day for me. Okay? If- if I hear you had anything other than a good day, then... then I'll break into your room tonight and give you hot chocolate."

Peri smiled. He felt tears in the corners of his eyes, but, it was okay. They were okay. He was okay.

"Sounds like I should have a bad day on purpose," he sniffled.

Christopher chuckled again. He could hear Chris' heartbeat if he listened close enough. A steady, calm rhythm. By god, he could revel in it. Being so close. Having that comfort, being given it so willingly. He could remember so clearly how difficult those first few years with them were and how much support Christopher would pour into him, every month, every week, every day. Bringing warm cups of coffee, lending spare clothes, being a shoulder to cry on. He never raised his voice, not at him. He'd stand there and take the screaming and then when it was over he'd listen to the lamenting and the crying, too.  _ He  _ was the one who aided the recovery, _ he _ was the one who gave a reason to live in the first place.

Was it any question why Peri fell in love with him?

"I should go," Peri whispered. He didn't want to. He really didn't want to.

But it was okay.

Christopher stepped back. The hug was gone. Still, it was okay. It would always be okay. Even if not in the moment, one day, everything would be fine. That was reason enough to keep going. To keep fighting. To keep turning the pages, instead of putting the book back on the shelf. The knowledge that everything would, one day, eventually, be okay, it was enough. It would continue to be enough. Even knowing what could happen, or what  _ will  _ happen, even after all the  _ shit  _ is said and done, it would be okay.

He'd fight for his happy ending and he'd damn well succeed.

As he watched Christopher leave, and as he walked back to Pascal, with a new spring in his step, he had only one thought; he was going to have a brilliant fucking day, and nothing was going to stop him.

* * *

Optometrists, Peri realised, were much different in his universe. Or... well, they were similar in a lot of ways, but during his time as an Imperial, at least, he never had to book an  _ appointment  _ for his eyes. He had mandatory, yearly check-ups. Perhaps that just came with the job. Still, he found it strange, standing behind Pascal and feeling like a child while the appointment was booked for him. 

His eyesight hadn't been on his list of priorities. He figured it was going to get worse over time, anyway, and wearing the glasses wasn't going to stop that, even if they weren't outdated. Poor eyesight came with age, if he lived that long; which he certainly planned to. He hadn't spent forty-or-so years alive just to give up at fifty. 

But as he stood there, on that carpet, peering around the room, he felt a sense of... excitement. Yes, he was  _ excited.  _ He  _ wanted  _ to upgrade his prescription. He wanted to get rid of the headaches. He wanted to be able to read his own damn notes without squinting.

So he was excited. And  _ being  _ excited was excitable in of itself, so that doubled what he was feeling, and- gods, he was  _ excited.  _

* * *

Afterward, sitting in a coffee shop, he was  _ still  _ excited. He wouldn't trade it for the world. 

"Something's got you hyped up?" Pascal asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Hm?" Peri took a sip of his own. Winced as it was still too hot. "Sorry. Yes, just... being out and about. Doing me some good." He smiled, and it felt real. Yes, he could get used to this. He could absolutely get used to this.

Maybe if he couldn't go home, he could travel the world. Find a job and earn enough to pay for plane tickets.

Maybe he could look into getting citizenship. Something that seemed so, so impossible, but... perhaps, with Pascal's help...

He could see it clearly. He could go to France, and Germany, and Japan. Italy and Spain. Australia and New Zealand. He could. If he tried, if he really tried- and maybe, maybe, he could bring Christopher and Ivana along with him, too- 

His mind felt full and stuffy, but for the first time in- in a while, he felt truly okay. Was it the fresh air? The concept of change? He didn't care, it didn't matter. He was practically vibrating in his seat, and Pascal had an eyebrow raised in amusement. The headache pounding in his forehead didn't even matter anymore.

Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe the caffeine was making him hyper. Still, he didn't care. It didn't matter; he was happy. He could be happy. He would be okay. Everything would be okay.  _ Everything would be okay.  _

Still, though... His thoughts were just muffled and loud. Non-coherent.

It didn't matter.  _ It doesn't matter,  _ he told himself.  _ Because right now, you're happy. You're allowed to be happy. _

But why? Why?

_ Why not? _

"-talking about with Christopher?"

Ah. Pascal was talking. Peri focused his attention away from his dilemma.

"Sorry- what was that? I- didn't quite hear it."

"It's fine. I was just asking what you were talking about with Christopher."

Peri drummed his fingers on the table and on the side of his coffee cup. He took another sip, grateful to find it didn't burn his tongue.

"Stuff," he said. "It wasn't important. He was just taking a break. He was already here when we got here, he said, so no, don't think he was stalking, besides, he doesn't actually do that anymore, he does have a tracker on my phone but that's only for safety purposes, his has one as well, we've had them for-"

"Slow down!"

Peri's mouth snapped shut. Oh, he'd been doing it again, hadn't he? Christopher often told him to talk slower. Once he got going it was difficult to stop, especially in a mood like this, which was... more common than he'd previously thought, thinking upon it now, but-

"Sorry," he said. "I'm a bit of a motormouth. It might be the caffeine." He stared down into his cup.

"I've never heard you talk this much."

Peri shrugged. "It happens. I feel good. I feel really good. Like 'I could punch god' level of good, you know? I think it's a problem."

To his surprise, and absolutely glee, Pascal laughed. It was beautiful and real and loud enough to make the people sitting next to them turn their heads.

"Well, I'm damn glad to hear that!" he said, grinning. "You looked really, really miserable, so I thought this day would be a disaster. But- but I'm glad I could help, even a little."

"I'm grateful." Peri shifted forward in his seat. He placed his forearms on the table. "I'm really, really grateful. I know that- I know that maybe I'm not always the best company so I am so appreciative of what you're doing for me today because I've been needing something like this for so long, you know? I don't remember the last time I felt like this it must have been so long ago but then again perhaps it's just my depression clouding my judgement but," he paused to take a deep breath, " _ still.  _ Thank you, so very much."

There was silence, for a moment, as Pascal stared with a stunned expression. There was nothing except the surrounding conversations and the gentle clinking of cutlery for a good five or so seconds, but it didn't feel awkward, or strange.

"How-" Pascal began, "How often did you get to do stuff like this? Just... have a  _ day,  _ you know?"

"Well." Peri thought back as far as he could. He couldn't think of much besides that moment on the sidewalk, eating ice cream in the middle of summer, and that had only been a small break in an otherwise stressful day. That must've been the last time he felt so ethereal. He said as such, going into detail as much as he could about that moment, trying very much to help Pascal understand how special it was, how much it meant, how much it plagued his thoughts in all the best and simultaneously worst ways.

But then, when he'd finished speaking, Pascal had this sad look. Like Christopher's. And he knew what the man was going to say before he even said it.

"You...  _ really  _ like Christopher, don't you?"

And despite himself, Peri laughed. "Yes," he said. "Yes I do." 

* * *

"Would you like me to put that in a takeaway cup for you?"

Peri opened his mouth to respond, but as soon as he looked up the words died on his tongue. His mouth hung open stupidly. He felt like a fish out of water, his breath stolen from him, and he stared, not caring about the silence that stretched on between them.

The waiter- barista? Goodness, whatever he was, Peri couldn't even begin to describe. That smile, those emerald eyes, against the deep brown skin, and the frizzy hair, tied into a ponytail. Gods, this had happened too many times for him to even count, seeing someone and being starstruck, but- but-

"Um- ah- yes," he stammered. "Yes, yes- please."

He could see Pascal's amused expression out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't care, he didn't mind. He watched the barista take his unfinished cup from the counter and pour it into a new takeaway one. He noted, with glee, the lack of any ring, nor anything else that could tie the man to a relationship, like a pendant. He knew his time was running out when he was asked for his name, and he spelled it out, and it was written on the cup in Sharpie.

Their hands grazed each other as the cup was handed to him, and Peri had been standing for just a little bit too long, and Pascal was saying it was  _ time to go,  _ so he  _ had  _ to say something, anything, anything at all, but then his feet moved without his permission and he was already out the door.

Pascal was speaking, but he wasn't listening. His thoughts were like a tornado in his mind, or rather multiple tornadoes, conflicted between running back to the cafe and trudging along Pascal silently.

He had almost made up his mind, he was almost going to run back in full sprint, when Pascal sighed and took his cup out of his hand and showed him the writing on the other side.

A series of numbers. And a cute little heart followed by a question mark.

Yeah. He could get used to this. 

* * *

"How 'bout that barista then, hm?"

Peri ducked his head to hide the smile forcing itself onto his face, but his attempts were futile. 

Pascal laughed. "Love at first sight~?" he teased. "He was pretty damn hot."

"Shhh! Don't say that!"

"I'm  _ right  _ though."

"... _ Yes,  _ but..."

Another laugh. Peri didn't bother to hide the grin this time. He finished the rest of his coffee, but still gripped the cup tightly in his hand, admiring the number neatly printed on the side. The small little heart was so perfect. He had to resist fishing out his phone then and there. He'd do it when he got back to the house, yes. Or perhaps he should wait until the workday was over? What time did the barista's shift end?

Damn, what was the barista's name? A list of plausible ones flew through Peri's mind, but none really fit. He'd have to ask, yes.

He wanted to know everything. Favourite colour, favourite food, favourite movie, favourite television show, cat person or dog person, did he like children, did he  _ want  _ children, did he have any obsessions, any passions, any quotes to live by, ideals and philosophies- what was his family like? Did he have siblings? What was his childhood like? What-

_ Smack! _

He fell to the floor, and so did the person he collided with. A million apologies immediately flew off his tongue as he scrambled to his feet. He went to reach out a hand, but stopped, and froze, and it was like he'd been doused in cold water.

Oh god.

_ Oh god. _

He stared in abject horror at the scene before him. The man on the ground bore an expression that could only be described as fear and confusion mixed into one. How would it feel, how must it  _ feel?! _

The man got to his feet. Peri stared into the eyes of Omid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	31. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hear on the wind how the pendulum swings  
Feel how the winter succumbs to the spring  
Over the palisade morning will break  
Rise up to meet it, oh sleeper awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i forget to post again? yes

"Repeat it again."

"We've been through it ten times."

"I'm just so confused. I don't understand."

"Well, neither do we!"

Pedro leaned further against the couch cushions. He shook his leg up and down, arms crossed over his torso and struggling to keep his eyes open.

After  _ Omid  _ (of all people!) ran into them at the  _ damn  _ store, an explanation was... inevitable. Really- if Pedro had thought to try and play it off as a doppelganger situation, then,  _ maybe,  _ they wouldn't have  _ needed  _ to call over Christopher, and Ivana, and Sam. They wouldn't have needed to force Din out from his room. They wouldn't have needed to calm Pershing - Peri? God knows - down from a panic attack. And they  _ certainly  _ wouldn't have needed to sit Omid down at the dining table and explain everything they knew.

But, there they were. Explaining for the eleventh time in a row.

"This has to be some sort of-"

There was a loud bang. Christopher slammed his hand against the table. Pedro flinched, scrunching his eyes and hand automatically flying to his shoulder.

"This is not a fucking joke," Christopher hissed. "Every damn day I wish it was, but it isn't. Do you need me to explain it again? Abtahi?"

Pedro cracked his eyes open just in time to see Pershing bury his head in his hands.

Omid himself was staring, completely dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open. Ivana stood idly by, refusing to make eye contact with anyone in the room. Sam was sitting barely a seat away from Omid, appearing just as timid as she had on the previous visit. Din... well. He wasn't even sure Din was paying attention. 

Omid frowned. "I'm sorry, but-"

"No.  _ No.  _ This shit is getting old. You-"

" _ Christopher,"  _ Pedro hissed. "Keep your fucking voice down. I've got a migraine."

"We've all got migraines," Din grumbled from his spot on the floor. So he had been listening, then. Pershing nodded subtly from his seat.

_ Omid knows. _

Pedro stared at his text until his eyes went cross-eyed. Jon had  _ seen  _ it but hadn't responded, and it had been ten minutes, at least.

"Look, I-" Omid's eyes darted to a clock on the wall, "I have to go, really soon- so, so if someone can  _ please- _ "

"Omid," Pedro mumbled.

"-just, let me go, and-" 

" _ Omid. _ "

"-and I can just-"

" _ Omid! _ "

He jumped. His gaze snapped to where Pedro sat on the couch and he swallowed.

During their time on the set, they never interacted much. They didn't have much of a reason to. Omid only had three scenes, and one of them was filmed with Brendan. But still, Pedro had  _ met  _ him, he'd seen how he talked and behaved, so that  _ look  _ in his eye, fear mixed with confusion, as well as desperation; it was disconcerting, and he hated it. Christopher's overwhelming presence wasn't helping either, nor the fact that the bastard had been yelling for the past five minutes.

"I need to go home," Omid spoke, slowly.

"I know," said Pedro. "And I'm sorry. But I can't let you go until you understand." 

The doorbell rang. All attention turned to the door. Christopher was watching with a wary eye. The atmosphere felt suddenly tense. There was no one missing, no other damn travellers, so who?  _ Who?  _ But then Pedro's phone buzzed, and he understood. 

He bit back a sigh as he got up from the couch and walked toward the door. Slowly he reached out, briefly hesitating before he grabbed the handle and turned it. 

"Jon," he said. The situation felt all too familiar, and he couldn't help but be thrown back into the past, opening his front door, expecting to see Jon, only to be-

"Pedro," Jon breathed. "I'm sorry I didn't respond to your text, I was in the middle of a meeting, and-" He stopped abruptly. Pedro could see his eyes dancing from side to side, scanning the room in front of him. Pedro turned around and saw Christopher standing by the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Ivana stood next to him, and Din was sitting on the floor with his back against the kitchen counter. With Pershing and Sam as well, two people he was yet to meet, he couldn't begin to imagine what Jon must've been thinking or feeling. What a  _ sight  _ it would be to him.

"I'll explain," Pedro muttered. "Come in. I'll make coffee."

The awkward silence was stifling. Din had completely folded in on himself, refusing to spare even so much of a glance. Meanwhile, Omid was gawking with complete bewilderment.

"Okay," Jon said after a sip of the coffee. "Explain."

Pedro took a deep breath. He rattled off, one by one, all the events leading up to the situation they were in now. It wasn't awfully complicated but even so, explaining was proving to be unnaturally difficult, he stammered over every third word and kept getting side-tracked. He felt all the eyes on him, and as he went on Omid seemed to grow even more confounded than before. 

By the end, Jon was peering cautiously over at Christopher. Who... in turn, was sitting in an armchair with his eyes closed and his head leaning on the back of the seat.

"This doesn't make any sense," Omid muttered. 

Din scoffed. "You think it makes sense to  _ us _ ?" Sam nodded her head in agreement. She, too, was now sitting on the floor, cross-legged. 

"I've been here for two weeks," she said, "and it's still the most perplexing situation. None of it makes sense. Understanding the travel itself is simple enough but that's only because of speculation. None of us actually know... what's going on, or why."

It was odd seeing Samantha speak. She appeared so timid when she was quiet, but the second she opened her mouth it was like it was difficult for her to stop. Almost like Pershing, in that sense. So much to say. So little time to say it.

"The only thing we know," Ivana said, "is that for one reason or another, people are being pulled from their universe and plonked into this one. There could be more here that we just don't know about." 

"How... many do you know about...?" asked Omid.  _ Good. He's starting to understand.  _ Maybe he'd stop trying to pass it off as a practical joke

"All the ones we're aware of are in this room," said Ivana. "Djarin, Pershing, Christopher, Samantha, and myself. This could be happening everywhere-"

"-and not just in this Universe," Chris mumbled. "We have reason to believe people are being pulled from here, too. Which could mean it's -  _ literally  _ \- a universal thing."

"Why do you think people are being pulled from here, too?" Jon asked suddenly.

"Missing persons. Weird circumstances. Cases being  _ shut down  _ by the government. You know, classic bullshit."

An uneasy silence filled the room. Everyone was looking down at the floor, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, even Omid.

Pedro could only imagine what was going through the poor man's mind. Did he even believe it? It was hard to tell. When Din had approached Pedro on that very first day at least he had a good few hours to think about it. Now they were throwing everything at once onto Omid, and... well, it wasn't really  _ fair. _

"Um..."

Peri spoke for the first time since they got back, suddenly and quietly. But in the silence of the room he was easily heard. All attention turned toward him. Omid stared with an unidentifiable emotion plastered on his face. Confusion? Shock? Fear?

"...We- we noticed that the disappearances of- of this category aren't only happening in the United States. It's all over the- the globe, from populated places like China to small towns in remote parts of Iceland. There's been at least... we think, from what we can gather... there have been at least ten new cases in the past few years alone. And almost all investigations are shut down after about a month."

"How do you know they've dimension-hopped?" asked Din. "What if it's... not?"

"We know because of the circumstances of their disappearance. Most of them were in the comfort of their own home. The doors were almost always locked from the inside. There were never any signs of struggle, no one around them had malicious intent, they weren't involved in anything they shouldn't have been. No suspicious behaviour. The list goes on. One moment they were there, and then the next, they just  _ weren't _ . But the thing that sets this over the edge for us is that... um..." 

The words seemed to die on his tongue. He was hesitating like he was afraid he'd already shared too much information. But no one else spoke up. So he took a breath and continued. 

"There was one case, in... I believe it was 2018. A twenty-five-year-old male by the name of William Karness disappeared on a date with his girlfriend. She... witnessed the entire thing." He paused. The entire room was holding its breath. "She was killed under protective custody."

There was a soft 'oh my god', but Pedro didn't care to find out who it came from. He glared at the floor, mulling the information over in his mind.

It was ridiculous. It was so unbelievably ridiculous. Fucking outrageous, even. But, god, it made fucking  _ sense. _

"If... the government knows," he began slowly, "about those disappearances. That means they must know about Din, too. And... all of you. I mean, they'd have to." 

The resulting silence was all the answers he needed.

"Why haven't they tried anything?" he asked. "What's stopping them from killing everyone in this room?"

The idea, the  _ concept,  _ it was terrifying. The very thought of real, trained, government officials, seeing him and everyone else as a national security threat...  _ and then acting on it.  _ They could make him  _ really _ disappear if they damn well wanted to.

Christopher sat down on the couch. Ivana sat next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"They  _ have  _ tried," Christopher said, quietly. So quiet you had to strain your ears to hear it. "That's why we've been following you." 

"...No, you said-"

"We were lying. We knew you didn't know the way back. We're not daft. We needed to get close enough to both of you to track you properly. It was the only way we could provide proper protection. Whoever is hired to track this sort of shit has been stalking you since December." 

He felt numb. Perhaps it wasn't registering properly. The room was eerily silent, and that look in Christopher's eye was chilling, combined with the blank stare.

And Din. Din looked like he'd been hit with everything at once. The realisation slamming into him like a train. That they were being  _ stalked  _ for months at a time, and he  _ hadn't noticed.  _ Pedro wanted to reassure him, to tell him that it was fine, it was okay, but at the same time, he  _ knew _ that expression, so he held back. They could talk later. 

"You've been warding them off," Pedro said quietly. Christopher said nothing, but no response was needed. "Pershing, you knew about this?"

The doctor glanced up from his phone with a confused look and a flushed face. He hadn't been paying attention... was likely focusing on messaging that barista from earlier. The thought alone was enough to bring some comfort into the bleak atmosphere.

"S-Sorry? Knew about what?" He shut off his phone but didn't stop eyeing it.

"Christopher and Ivana warding off..." he waved his hand, unable to find the word, "...people." 

"I helped too!" Pershing immediately insisted. He then flushed an even deeper red. "...yes... I knew."

Din got up from his position on the floor. There was a tightness in his shoulders that hadn't been there before. His expression was dark. Pedro knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth, but couldn't find it within himself to stop it, as disastrous as the result was going to be.

He began quietly,

"If you were trying to protect us..."

But as he spoke he grew louder and louder, 

"...if all you wanted to do was 'ward off' whoever has been  _ hunting  _ us-"

Until he was yelling, yelling so loud that it felt like the floor was shaking. He was the most intimidating person in the room - like he was damn well  _ supposed  _ to be, like he'd been for the majority of his life, Din was back in his element and it was  _ terrifying.  _

"Then,  _ why the fuck, _ " he seethed, “ _ did you shoot Pedro?! _ "

Omid shot up abruptly from his seat at the table. Before anyone could react he was already halfway across the room, colour completely drained from his face. No one jumped up, no one stopped him from leaving. Pershing had this awful look in his eye, sadness and disappointment, but he didn't move to follow. Even Jon was firmly rooted to his spot and only moved to tilt his head slightly and watch with dismay.

The door slammed, and Omid was gone.

Now they had to deal with the matter at hand.

He felt reluctant, turning back to Christopher. He did regret it, too, when he saw the state the man was in. His hand covering his face, and the other resting on his chest, just below where his ribs would be. Enough of his face was visible that you could see his pained expression, mouth turned up into a sneer.

Ivana said something to him in Bulgarian. He responded with a harsh rasp in his voice before eventually dropping his hand from his face, but not his chest. In fact, he seemed to be pressing his hand into his torso, like it was in pain.

He squinted up at them. Not like narrowing his eyes out of annoyance, no- he was  _ squinting,  _ like his eyesight had suddenly fucked-off. Ivana's expression was etched into a deep, worried frown. He'd never seen her so concerned before. Usually she had a fairly blank expression, but now her eyes were wide and she shot a panicked glance over at Pershing, who responded with a shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the head.

"Look," Christopher rasped, "You scared Abtahi away..."

"I think he's more scared of you," Din hissed.

"Who's to say."

Pedro took a step toward Din. He went to place a hand on Din's shoulder but remembered that that likely wouldn't end well. So he just stood, instead, hands shoved into his jeans pockets.

"Fighting is  _ not  _ going to fix anything. If that's all you're here for, then you can get out of my fucking house."

Silence.  _ Good. _

"Okay. Christopher.  _ Who _ has been following us?"

His eyes were closed again, and he was resting the side of his face against a closed fist. He responded with a slight slur in his speech. 

"I don'know the guy's name. Tryin'a get that close wasn't gonna end well." He paused to yawn, covering his mouth with his hand. "He's easy enough to ward off. Our technology is better than the crap this planet has. We've made a name for ourselves, yeah... I think they know they're bein' fucked with, but still don'know how to avoid it."

"What're you doing to fuck with them? They have to know where we live."

"He knows where you live, yes; he also knows that you're involved with us. We..." he trailed off, cracking open his eyes slightly. He looked... sad. Really sad. His eyes were watery- though, to be fair, Pedro didn't think it was because he was upset, more just because he was squinting.

"We've had to deal with these sorts of people before," Ivana continued for him when he did not go on. "When we say 'we've made a name for ourselves', we don't mean we're known for fucking around with their shit. We  _ do,  _ but..." she trailed off.

"I don't understand," said Pedro.

Din ran a hand over his face. It lingered there, covering his mouth, as he stared over at the two sitting on the couch. For a moment, Pedro could've sworn that- that he made  _ eye-contact  _ with Christopher, real genuine eye-contact, but if it even happened at all it was over as quick as it started.

There wasn't anger, though. Nor annoyance. More like... some sort of strange understanding. That was what it felt like. It didn't make sense, but it was definitely there, and from the looks of things Ivana sensed it, too. Though she seemed to understand more than he did.

It was Sam that broke the silence. He'd almost forgotten she was there, still sitting on the floor barely three feet away. It reminded him of Jon, as well, standing near the kitchen. Damn, this was going to take a while.

"You must understand," she began, slowly, "that whatever they've done, they did it because they had to."

"Right. Like  _ shooting  _ me?"

Christopher visibly flinched. Jon shifted his position. Uncomfortable.

"W-Well, I don't- know about that-" Sam stammered. "B-But! Everything before that. They explained it to me- or, rather, I forced them to, but-" she paused. Thinking. Then took a deep breath. "I know you hate them. I know you see them as bad people. I haven't been around long, but I can see that, and I understand it, I do. But- I've known Christopher since I was in kindergarten. Younger, even. He's... he's  _ not _ a bad person, he's never been a bad person, even if sometimes I hated him and we fought and- it's a mess. But he's not a bad person. I know he's listening and rolling his eyes, thinking about telling me  _ otherwise _ , but these are my thoughts."

Despite this, Christopher didn't say a word, and when Pedro turned to look, his eyes had closed again. If he didn't know any better he'd say the man had fallen asleep. 

...Actually, he might have. His breathing was certainly slower than before. Calmer, even. He almost seemed... peaceful. 

Covered in so many bruises, though, he looked anything but.

There were new ones, now.

And despite everything, Pedro couldn't help but feel... so much concern. Combined with everything else...

He wasn't  _ stupid.  _ Despite what a lot of people might say. He could see that something was  _ wrong  _ and so could everyone else in the room. No one mentioned it, but everyone had that same look in their eye, even Din; and Pedro knew they were all thinking the same thing. 

"Everything is very... complicated," Ivana spoke quietly, so as to not awaken Christopher. "More complicated than you probably realise."

Pedro clenched his fists. He suddenly felt very hot. "He shot me."

"...I know. I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix anything."

Pershing ducked his head, seemingly reminded of his and Pedro's first meeting. That mug. Pedro remembered taking out the trash that week and seeing the shards of ceramic. He remembered thinking, then, that perhaps he’d been too harsh.

But hearing those fucking words made his blood boil.  _ Sorry doesn't fix anything. _

Ivana glanced over at the sleeping Christopher, then Jon, then back over at Pedro. She looked sad.

"There's nothing I can say that will help, but- he's not going to say it to you, but he feels- so much guilt. When... when he shot you, he came back with you, carrying you in a bridal-style sort of way, and he was  _ screaming  _ for help, and he was shaking  _ so bad  _ and he could hardly stand..." she paused to take a shuddering breath. "I don't know why he shot you. Based on what he's told me, I don't even think there is a reason. I think he was driven by impulse, I don't believe he was thinking, at all. Maybe he got scared, I don't- I don't know. He said you jumped at him and he panicked but I don't know if that's true- and something tells me you don't really remember, either."

He didn't. He didn't remember anything. Just the gun, then being on that floor. The burst of pain. It started to fade... didn't hurt anymore... then passing out. His entire world spinning before it became engulfed in darkness. 

He could've jumped at Christopher. It sounded like something he'd do. To protect Din.

"...said the gun was only for emergencies, I have one too, so did Peri before he left. Please understand that it wasn't his intention to harm you. He- he doesn't even like holding the damn thing. I mean, we come from a world without the need for war, before all of this he'd never even seen a gun outside of history museums. I remember- I remember-" she paused again, breathing becoming heavy. There were tears in her eyes, now, and when she spoke again her voice sounded strained and unsteady,

"I remember the first time he held one, it had been two years since we arrived, and he had this terrible, terrible look in his eye. He was so afraid, he didn't want to hold it, his hands  _ still  _ shake when he holds it- but, but- that's sort of when- when-" a tear fell down her face, and she hastily wiped it away with the back of her sleeve, "that's sort of when I knew he wasn't ever going to be the same, and- and I knew that he wasn't the man I married anymore." 

More tears fell, and this time, she didn't bother to wipe them away. She took a few breaths but they didn't seem to help much.

"I love him," she rasped. Her voice sounded different, in the sense that her accent had... changed. Only slightly, it was subtle. A Bulgarian accent. "I love him so much. But this isn't the same man I saw when I walked down the aisle. This isn't who he  _ is _ . Christopher- Christopher was the kindest boy, you wouldn't believe- the extent he was willing to go for other people. He was diagnosed with anxiety, and- depression, very young, but it never stopped him from protecting the people he loved. Please-  _ please  _ understand, my husband is not cruel. Despite what you might feel, despite what he's done, all I ask is that you understand- he is not cruel."

Din made a strange, guttural sound. When Pedro turned to look, he saw that his jaw was clenched and he was glaring, very intently, at the floor below him. Then, he sighed, muttered something about 'needing air'... and left. 

* * *

"It's like a furnace in there."

Din cracked his eyes open. He squinted through the blaring sunlight. The weather was warmer that day. He wasn't about to complain about it, he  _ hated  _ the cold, but without the helmet's visor, every ray of sunshine was just that little bit too bright.

He turned toward the direction of the voice. His eyes took a moment to adjust to what he was seeing. 

Samantha stood by the door. She was peering out into the yard, sort of absentmindedly. She was wearing red glasses held together by a piece of tape in the middle, ones she definitely hadn't been wearing when she walked in the front door about two hours ago.

"Sorry," she said. "Were you sleeping?" 

Din moved in the seat so that his posture was straight. The cat, who was curled up in a ball next to him, meowed softly in annoyance as sunlight which Din had been previously blocking hit her face. 

"Just resting my eyes," he mumbled.

Samantha shifted her stance awkwardly. Her hands were interlocked, resting in front of her stomach, and all of her weight was on one leg. 

"Mind if I sit?" she asked. Din shrugged.

"Go ahead."

She shuffled toward him. She seemed to hesitate before sitting, but eventually she did, leaving only a few inches of space between them. Strangely, he found he didn't mind.

"Weather's nice," she said. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

He turned back to staring out into the yard. "Yeah. Sunny."

Small talk.  _ I hate it.  _ Nothing about it was ever engaging and it was always fucking awkward. But, despite this, it felt fine. Felt okay.

It was like the last time they talked. Nothing about Samantha's presence was particularly comforting per se but it wasn't horrible and awkward like he would've expected it to be, either. She was simply... there. Not intrusive, despite her close proximity.

She sighed softly. "Everything's a bit... fucky." 

"Hear, hear."

"Feels like it's straight out of some sci-fi novel, you know? I don't even like sci-fi. I always thought it was dumb." She turned to look at him. "But now it's like I'm living in one. I'm expecting aliens to come down from the sky any day now." She chuckled, and Din forced a smile, not feeling up to explaining that he, was, in fact, an alien. Technically she was, too, but he didn't feel like explaining that, either. 

"I watched your show, by the way. Or, some of it. We ran out of time. I think we made it to the fifth episode. That lady- Omera was her name, right?" She shuffled closer to Din, bearing an almost amused expression. "You  _ like  _ her."

Din flushed scarlet, and not for the last time, he wished he could cover his face with the helmet. Sam burst out into loud, obnoxious laughter, and it only made him wish it even harder.

"Sorry," she chuckled, "I couldn't resist it. You know what's strange? I'm doing and saying things I never would have said otherwise."

"Tell me about it," Din grumbled.

"But from what I've heard you all got 'depressed' or, whatever. But- but... ugh, it's weird, but I feel... better. Great, even. I mean... I miss home, I miss my brother and my cousin, but... I feel- I feel like a better person. Sorry, am I rambling?"

Din stared at her through the blaring sunlight.

"No," he said simply. "You're fine." He couldn't at all comprehend how the dimensional hop would have helped her be a better person, but he wasn't about to question it. He had a sneaking suspicion she was going to explain anyway.

"I mean, because... I guess I'm- well, Christopher would say I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. And, he's right. I guess. I used to hate it, when he'd say that. As kids it was sort of a passing remark and then he'd laugh a little, but as we got older and we began to fight more and I became... shitty, he'd yell at me and call me a "bratty silver-spoon" and, yeah. He was right. Even so, though, after he went missing..." She sighed and shook her head. Moved some of her white hair behind her ear. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't shed a tear or two. Don't tell him I said that, god, I'd never hear the end of it. His brother was distraught, though..." She fell silent for a moment, thinking. "I'd never seen James like that before. The way he looked, you'd more expect Christopher to look like that... well, I mean, they were brothers- fraternal twins, actually- so it made sense, but Christopher was always the sad one. James was happy most of the time. Very social, likes people, even though he's autistic."

Din didn't know what autistic meant, but he didn't feel like prying. Or talking at all, really.

"His sister, though... older sister, Jennifer... she's a lot like their father, I think, in terms of personality- not looks, goodness no, she and Christopher look like their mother, but-"

"You sure you should be sharing all of this?" Din interrupted, cutting Sam's rambling off. "Seems like private information."

Truth be told, he didn't care much at all for Christopher's family. Nor the man himself. Even if he had, though, he just wanted to  _ sleep.  _ He was fine with Sam's presence, but her rambling was beginning to put him on edge.

"Oh. Yes," she said. "You're right, sorry."

There was blissful silence.

But not for long.

"You know, I think I know why all of this has helped me with- being better. I think I know." 

"Yeah?" Din mumbled, not feeling up to saying much else.

"Yeah," she replied. "I was brought up as- well, I was well-off, as Christopher would say, so I think... having it all taken away from me. It's helped. I never understood "poor" people. Why couldn't they just get a job? But I see it now. You know, I keep catching myself thinking, 'goodness, I'd rather die than live like this', but then I realised, isn't that pathetic? That I genuinely felt I'd rather die than live in poverty? I think that says a lot about my upbringing."

_ I suppose.  _ It didn't matter to him either way. But if Sam found comfort in rambling, then who was he to judge, really. 

She didn't ramble for much longer though, as before she could open her mouth to speak again, Pedro poked his head through the door. He said something about Chris and Ivana leaving, and asked if Sam was ready to go. Din followed the two back inside, and so did the cat, which he picked up to carry in his arms as soon as they stepped into the living room.

But then, as Christopher, now awake, moved to grab his backpack, Pedro... tapped him on the shoulder. And he jumped. 

"I'd like to talk to you for a bit," Pedro said. "Alone. If that's okay."

Chris and Ivana shared a look. Exchanged some words in a different language - Bulgarian, as he'd come to understand - then both nodded.

He and Peri were shooed up to their respective rooms.

Din kept an ear to the door and didn't dare to move until he knew Christopher had left.

He was going to be there a while, it seemed.

* * *

_ I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm the guy from the coffee shop.  _ 😊

_ !!! ofc i remember!!! hi!! peri, right? _

_ yes! I'm sorry I didn't catch your name  _ 😭 _ I know you were probably wearing a nametag but I didn't think to look! _

_ nahh no problem man. i could see u were too distracted by my face _

_ LOL jk  _

_ im asher! _

_ Asher is such a nice name! _

_ thank u!!!  _ 🤗

_ where are u from? i never seen u around before today  _

_ aaaa I don't really get out much that's probably why! tend to stay inside most days _

_ i can relate lol. u live close by?  _

_ ish. I think it's within walking distance but I've never actually walked there haha. yourself? _

_ i cycle to work every day so yes! only abt 5 mins away! _

_ ohhh that's good! living so close to your job! it must be nice! _

_ yeah it's aight, working in retail ain't ideal but whatchu gonna do. what do u do for work? _

_ I don't have a job right now :( I have a doctorate~ but nothing to use it for atm  _ 😭

_ omg a doctorate!!!!!!!! ur smart!!! what u degree in? _

_ genetic engineering! _

_ Scifi!!!!!!!  _

_ i assume u live w/ other ppl then? _

_ yes, I live with two others currently :) they were very kind to let me stay. _

_ nice! i live w/ my sister rn while i finish my university degree! id like to say ima get a doctorate too but LOL i think id collapse _

_ I think you could do it  _ 🤗  _ what's your major? _

_ nothing special lol. English degree :)) wanted to become a teacher when i started but now i think id rather just sit inside and write a book or smth lol, and take care of my plants!!!  _

_ oh plants!!!! you have plants??? _

_ ya! i love potted plants, theyre like,,,,,,,,,,,,, my babies. like if i never have kids/adopt kids i am perfectly content taking care of plants for the rest of my life LOL what about u? do u have any plants? _

_ no I don't :( I think it'd be so fun tho! much easier than an actual pet. one of my housemates got a cat recently and the breed he got requires a lot of maintenance. _

_ ohhhhhhhhhh what breed??? i had sum cats growing up _

_ sphynx cat. you know the hairless ones? _

_ omg. i always saw them and thought they were so ugly _

_ HAHA _

_ but like in a cute way u feel me _

_ I feel you _

_ you know _

_ that sounded better in my head _

_ LOL i didnt even see it that way until u mentioned it, i get whatchu mean <3 _

😔 

_ sorry sadness is illegal i dont make the rules _

_ illegal?! oh no dont call the police pls _

_ 911 _

_ nooooo _

_ yes officer i found him _

_ noooooooooooo _

_ sorry peri ur going to jail _

_ *sobbing* _

_ 10000000000 years in prison  _

_ whyyyyy _

_ pls  _ 😔

_ hmmmmmmmmmmmmm _

_ well u can pay the bail and u can be free _

_ yes?????? whats the price  _ 😔

_ a date? :D _

_ peri? _

_ i'm sorry  _ 😭  _ was it too sudden?  _

_ NO _

_ I MEAN _

_ YES _

_ I MEAN _

_ NO IT WASNT SUDDEN _

_ YES I WOULD LOVE A DATE _

_ sorry i just got interrupted and then stuff was happening and jfhsj i would love a date i really would _

_ omg _

_ okay! great! what day is good?  _

_ I'm good any day really, except for Tuesday next week ! _

_ alright! how does this coming friday sound then? at maybe 6pm? i know this really good place! i can give u the address, unless you'd prefer i drive u there? _

_ I can get there on my own but I appreciate the thought! I've never actually been on a date before though so i fear i may be a really awful conversationalist _

_ well you've been wonderful to talk to so far! _

_ you'll be ok <3 it cant get any worse than some of my first dates in any case LOL _

_ I'll see u there then???? _

_ yes! I'm looking forward to it!!!!! _

_ brilliant! okay! _

_ i should get back to my shift, so I'll msg u later if u wanna keep talking! _

_ yes id love to! get back to work, I'll be here all day haha _

_ <3 _

Giddiness. He could revel in giddiness. Peri knew then, staring at those messages, that he'd be okay. Any uncertainty melted away.

He'd be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPT: I'm going to be taking a short break from posting. It'll only be for two weeks! I want to use this time to write as much as I can without worrying about posting. I'll post a proper update tomorrow for those who don't read notes, and then after the break is over I'll delete the update :) in the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	32. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I took my chance and bit down deep  
The weight of the world was crippling  
Now I'll hide my shame with woven leaves

**Please proceed with caution.**   
**Trigger warning for those struggling with depression.**   
**I promise things will get better. Hold on for me. Things will be okay.**

**There are two asterisk scenes. The first is short, the second is longer. They are dialogue and consist of a ** ** potentially ** ** triggering topic. I made the asterisks more obvious by using three instead of the usual one.**

**This chapter is important to me as a writer, so I didn't want to cut it. Even if no one reads, I take solace in knowing I finally had the courage to write something like this and post it online. I can imagine some might feel distressed by some of the dialogue in this chapter and for that, I apologise. But this chapter is too important to me.**

**I don't personally struggle with depression, but I've known many people who have, and I've personally known a few that have attempted to take their own life. None that were close to me have succeeded, but the thought is still scary.**

**If you're struggling with depression, anxiety, etc, don't hesitate to reach out to other people. I'm also here to listen should you so choose to talk to me.**

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
16th March 2020

Christopher slowly sank into the couch.

The house had become quiet, almost too quiet, even with the news on the TV playing softly in the background. The atmosphere was tense. Pedro could feel it in his chest, like a sort of ache, and as his heart began to beat faster and faster, he had to force himself to breathe.

"When," Pedro began, immediately cutting himself off at the sound of his voice. Hoarse. He tried again. "When you came to visit, about... about a week ago, I asked what you were like before you came here. And you said you didn't know."

Christopher ducked his head slightly, almost like a nod.

"I did," he said simply.

"And I said you were lying."

Christopher's eyes slid closed. "You did," he said.

There was silence. The feeling in Pedro's chest tightened, and a knot formed in his throat. _This is not going to end well._

_I should've asked Pershing to stay._

"Well... well, then, I'm asking again. I want to know. What you were like."

Christopher's eyes opened slightly and Pedro could see the man staring at him through his eyelashes. He appeared almost sickly, now. Weak. Like all of the anger had melted away and left nothing but a defeated and _exhausted _man.

And then he spoke. And it was barely above a whisper.

" 'M not the best person to ask," he muttered. He appeared to suppress a yawn. "Ivana could tell you..."

His eyes closed again. There was a tense moment of silence. Then his eyes suddenly snapped open wide, and he inhaled sharply, shifting his position on the couch so that he was sitting with his knees tucked to his chest.

"Well," Pedro said, "I'm not asking Ivana, I'm asking you."

_Besides, she's said her part._

There was more silence as Christopher stared blankly at the wall opposite him.

"Thing is," he finally spoke, "I really don't know how to answer that."

"Try anyway."

Christopher shot him a sideways glare. "Why do you _care?_"

"I'm just curious."

"No one's this insistent about something so_ trivial_ because of curiosity. Why do you care? Why do you want to know?"

Pedro bit his lip. He thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully in his mind. He had to be cautious. One wrong move and everything would be out the window.

"Well," he began, slowly. "Maybe I'm just trying to find the humanity under the skin of the guy who shot me."

_So much for caution._

Still, Christopher didn't move. Nor did his sideways gaze waver. He continued to stare, not even blinking, for what must've been around half a minute, but felt like hours.

"My sister," Christopher finally said, "My sister used to say that I was a kind-hearted, naíve fool."

Pedro blinked. "She doesn't sound very nice."

Christopher, to Pedro's surprise, chuckled.

"She was lovely," he said quietly. His expression softened. "She was. You'd like her." He turned his head back to the wall, and immediately his expression hardened again. "She was fiery. Got in trouble a lot. She told me she got suspended when she was nine for punching a girl who was picking on her. I think-" he chuckled, "I think she very much influenced my upbringing."

"How old is she?"

Chris hummed. "When I left, she was twenty-eight. I was twenty-five. She's three years older."

_Twenty-five. God, you were so young. No one deserves this._

"She'd be thirty-eight, now. Fuck." Christopher sighed. His face contorted into a scowl. "Nearly fuckin' forty."

"Wait, but..."

Chris turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Pedro bit the inside of his mouth. _Think before you speak!_ "You said Sam disappeared a week after you guys did."

"So?"

"So... so... that means it's only been a _week _in your Universe. Your sister- and other family, and friends- they wouldn't have really aged at all. Right?"

Christopher blinked.

"That's..."

But before Pedro could find out what it was, there was a low guttural sound. They both turned toward the source, to see the cat standing defensively by the stairs, her back arched and her claws ready to strike. She hissed, glaring daggers at Chris through her yellow eyes.

"Oh," Christopher said, all the emotion that had previously been in his voice completely evaporated. "Even the cat hates me."

Pedro said nothing and only watched. Some cruel part of him was hoping that she would leap at Chris, but the other part knew that would only cause issues.

"Where's your dog, by the way?" Christopher suddenly asked. "I haven't seen him at all, but I know you have one."

Pedro blinked. Then blinked again. "How... _how do you know that I have a dog?_" At this, Chris rolled his eyes.

"Believe it or not - _like it _or not - I knew about you before The Mandalorian."

"But-"

"You having a dog isn't the world's secret. You used to post about him all the time."

Pedro frowned. He bit his tongue, trying desperately to think of some sort of comeback, but Christopher was right. Still, he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable.

"He's in my room," Pedro said, slowly. "I put him away while you're all here because he gets antsy around new people."

Chris hummed, then went back to staring at the cat. She'd crept closer now, claws extended.

"Cat's new, though," said Chris. "It belongs to the Mandalorian?"

"...Yes."

"But aren't you allergic?"

She took a step forward. She was very close to the couch, now, Pedro would need to step in before she took a leap, as much as he would love to see Christopher scratched up by Din's cat-

But then, without even so much as a warning, she _did _leap. Christopher jumped up from the couch, but she had scratched at his arm. He yelped, stumbling backward and only narrowly avoiding falling over the coffee table before he collapsed into the armchair. The cat hissed at him as he cradled his arm, which was already bleeding.

"_Fucking hell!" _he shouted. "Fuck!"

There was a commotion upstairs, and Pershing appeared at the top of the railing, leaning so far off the edge that it looked like he was about to topple over.

"Is everything okay?!" he yelled. Din passed by behind him then came down the stairs, making a beeline for the cat.

"I'm _fine,_" Christopher hissed. "The cat fucking scratched me."

"What were you_ doing _to her?" Din growled as he carried her in his arms.

"I wasn't doing anything!"

"Then why did she scratch you?!"

"Because she's a _cat? _That's what cats fucking do."

"Yeah? How many cats have you owned?"

"I've never owned one because every encounter I had with the bastards they'd attack me!"

"Well, maybe you're scary to them!"

"What are you expecting me to do about that?!"

Pedro buried his head in his hands, biting back a groan. "Jesus Christ, shut the _fuck _up. Din, just- go back upstairs. _Please._"

He couldn't see Din's expression, but he knew the man was frowning. Still, he didn't object, and he turned to leave, along with Peri. He waited until both of their doors had closed. When he looked up, Christopher was holding his hand below his arm, catching blood that was beginning to drip down. It was strange, how much he was bleeding from such a small scratch. Maybe the cut was deeper than it appeared.

Christopher cleared his throat. His expression was hidden. "Can I use your sink? To rinse this off."

Pedro stared for a moment longer, then nodded, before remembering that Chris couldn't see him. "Sure," he said.

Silently, Christopher leaned over to his backpack and pulled out a bandaid from one of the small pockets. He then got up from the couch and moved toward the kitchen sink, turning on the tap water.

It was strangely silent, now, even with the running water. A very uncomfortable silence. Pedro tried to find something in the room to distract him, like watching the TV, but found his eyes always wandered back to Christopher at the sink, who's expression was... blank. Eerily blank. It reminded him of Din, the first night they shared the bed, and how emotionless the man had looked. Chris had that same expression, but somehow, Pedro knew that it didn't actually reflect what he was feeling.

Sometimes he hated being able to read body language.

The tap water stopped. The house was completely silent. Christopher stuck the bandage to his arm. But he didn't move from the sink. No, he rested his hands on the counter, leaning on them, staring blankly into it.

Pedro wanted to say something, anything to break the silence, but every time he tried the words died on his tongue. He could only watch.

It had to have been five minutes at least before Christopher spoke.

"I'm, uh, sorry for falling asleep, earlier. Was... tired." He paused. "I guess tired is a bit of an understatement, though."

He didn't sound the same.

Yes, his voice was still that deep baritone, but it didn't send a chill down Pedro's spine. It didn't make him squirm. Chris just sounded... human. Like he was supposed to.

_Human. _That's all he was. Why was that so difficult to comprehend?

The blank expression was gone. He looked sad again. Despite himself, Pedro pitied him.

"Just sat down... and I felt so tired, and I was thinking... _no, you're not going to fall asleep, not here_. Then I did anyway. I'm- I'm not sure what Sam said. She was speaking but everything was kind of muffled, then I was... asleep. What did she say?"

Christopher turned to look at him. For once, Pedro felt comfortable looking back.

He hesitated. Something in him was screaming not to speak at all, to just let Christopher wallow in his own damn despair, but all he could see was that pathetic look in the man's eye and he just couldn't. He couldn't.

"She said you're not a bad person."

Christopher's expression didn't change, but his posture did. He shifted all his weight into his arms, which were beginning to shake. If he let go of his grip, he was going to fall.

"What about Ivana?" he rasped. "Did she say anything?"

_She said lots of things. She was crying. _"She asked us to understand that you're not cruel."

"She said other things, though, didn't she."

"Yes."

He didn't ask Pedro to elaborate. Didn't seem to want to know.

That was fine. It was their business.

His eyes were closed again. But he didn't look peaceful this time. He almost looked strained, like he was concentrating very hard. He released a shaky breath then, finally, opened his eyes once more, and looked back over at Pedro.

*** * ***

"You know," he rasped. "You know... on that day, that- that day, when-" a shaky inhale, "-when I shot you. After Djarin- took you back. After that- after... after..." he trailed off. He appeared distant, much like how Din would.

Come to think of it, the two weren't that much different.

He shook his head. Drew another shaky inhale. "After that, I- I w-..."

He was struggling to get the words out. It was like he wasn't even registering his own speech. A strange sight.

"I wanted to throw myself off a building."

Pedro's stomach dropped. That blank expression was back, and so was the chill.

"And I was going to."

Their eyes met. Pedro couldn't look away. When Christopher spoke again, he was nearly whispering.

"I was going to," he repeated. "But I got scared." Eyes were wide, the blank expression was gone again, and he looked... afraid. "I haven't even told Ivana that." His voice cracked. He let out a whimper. "Or Peri. I haven't told anyone until- until now, and I don't- I don't- I don't even think that I registered until this fucking moment, but I just- I just remember thinking- I just-"

He gagged. His hand flew up to his mouth and he scrunched his eyes tight. If he was going to vomit, at least he was by the sink, but it was still an awful thing to think about.

"I just- _remember- _thinking. I just remember thinking that- that I was going to _die _anyway, so why did it fucking matter if it happened _now?_"

*** * ***

The realisation hit like a truck.

Of course.

_Of course_.

Human beings are so fragile. And so easily coerced, and manipulated... Pedro knew, though, that it wasn't some trick. He wished it was, but it wasn't.

Still, he was back to that blank stare. So emotionless. Like a robot. But after what he had said- how could anyone possibly believe he felt nothing? After admitting to something like that? And then... and then...

"I'm dying."

Barely above a whisper, but in such a quiet room... it was so loud. Far too loud. He might as well have screamed it.

The pity was overwhelming. Pedro _hated _it. What about this bastard was deserving of his pity? This man, who pointed a gun at his chest and pulled the trigger? What right did he have to elicit _pity?_

It was suffocating. The sheer amount of it. Washing over him like a tsunami. He had to be careful or he was going to drown in it.

But nothing could distract from it. Christopher at that sink, a hand firmly over his mouth again as he struggled with bouts of nausea. But that stare, that blank emotionless stare... it was going to slip. Pedro could feel it.

He was almost looking forward to it. Not... not that he _wanted _Christopher to be in pain, fuck, no, he wasn't cruel, but- seeing such a different side of this _strange _man. This robot.

But he was human. Just human. Why was that so difficult to comprehend? Pedro had seen the man express emotion before. Anger. _So _much anger.

But he'd seen love, too. That expression he bore when he was looking at Ivana. And then when he'd hugged Pershing, that was love- not the same type, perhaps, but love all the same. Appreciation. Respect. And somehow, Pershing fell in love with _him... _so there must be something good. There had to be.

But all he could see- all he could see was the man with a gun, standing in his doorway. He wanted- _needed _to see him differently. He needed to see the poor bastard in a different light. He couldn't wallow in despair over it forever. Seeing the _human _side of Christopher was the only way, the _only _way to move on.

So he watched and waited. It wasn't like he could bring comfort, anyway. What more was there to even do?

Christopher didn't seem to notice, in any case. He was staring at something in the sink. His reflection, maybe. Or droplets of water that hadn't gone down the drain. Either way he seemed far too focused on that to take notice of anything else.

Eventually, though, he cleared his throat to speak.

"I apologise. That was unprecedented."

Pedro had a sudden urge to make more coffee. Funny, he seemed to be drinking a lot more of it ever since Din first arrived. Usually he'd only have it in the mornings.

So he got up from the couch. Ignored, as best he could, Christopher's watchful eye, and grabbed a mug from the cabinet. But then he paused.

"Do you drink coffee?" he asked.

"...On occasion," Chris responded. "Not exactly high on my list of priorities."

So Pedro grabbed another mug. There was no protest as he made enough for both of them, but the man did certainly seem reluctant.

When he was done he handed one of the mugs to Christopher, and he took it reluctantly and with exceeding care like if he didn't it would break.

"Thank you," he said softly. The way he spoke, then... was almost comforting. Pedro allowed himself to relax and leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping from his second cup that day.

He didn't speak again until he'd finished, which meant they were in silence for at least ten minutes. Christopher stared out of a window the entire time. The wide one by the front door, where the curtains were usually drawn closed. They were opened earlier that day for the sunlight and warmth.

There was nothing particularly interesting happening. A few birds landed on the lawn before flying off as soon as a car passed them by, and that was the extent of it. But Chris was looking at something nonetheless; didn't have that distant expression.

Pedro placed his now empty mug back on the counter and Christopher's gaze turned toward him. It looked like his mug was empty, too, but Pedro didn't try to take it.

"You're dying."

He's reminded, vaguely, of his first meeting with Pershing. That sinking feeling in his stomach. This felt the same way. An awful feeling in his gut.

Often he wished Pershing had never come, that night.

Was that cruel?

Christopher placed the mug on the counter beside him, being so delicate with it that it didn't make any sound at all.

"Cancer," he said simply. And didn't elaborate further than that.

There had to be- there _needed _to be some way to get the bastard to talk. One word replies weren't going to be enough. But pushing too hard wouldn't help, either.

_He's dying, though._

Of course he was. _Of course._

Some part of him already knew. Wasn't exactly that difficult to decipher. Christopher was as sickly pale as the white walls behind him and the bags under his eyes were as dark as the colour of the eyes themselves. And he was so _thin. _Thinner than Pershing, even, and Pershing was short. Christopher was well above six feet, he towered over all of them, so being _that_ skinny...

He didn't look like that before, though, that was the thing. When he shoved a gun at Pedro's chest he _wasn't _that skinny. He was round-faced, he had looked relatively healthy. Now, despite his height, he was just so small. Small and sickly.

And then the other thing, too. That... confession. Pedro... didn't want to think about that. He shoved it aside, to the back of his mind. He was not equipped to deal with that.

"What type?"

He usually hated to pry. Especially with things like this. But god, he was curious, and he just- he needed to see some degree of goddamn emotion.

But Christopher maintainer that blank, robotic expression as he spoke. "Leukemia."

That... did make sense. The bruising, the blood. The fatigue. It made sense. He didn't know much about leukemia, but he knew enough to figure that it was... really shitty.

No wonder the bastard fell asleep in the middle of the goddamn conversation. He was _exhausted. _Mentally, physically, in every single sense of the word.

"How long?"

It was a vague question.

"Known for two... three years? Could've been longer. Called Peri yesterday to tell him that it's got worse."

...So that's what that call was about. Made sense, now. At the time, he was so curious, but... god. He wished he didn't know. He just wanted to _hate _this bastard. But he couldn't.

God, he couldn't.

"Is squinting part of it?"

"What?"

Christopher was looking at him now.

"Squinting. You were squinting earlier. I don't know much about leukemia- or cancer in general, but I didn't think that'd be part of it."

Chris continued to stare for a moment, then chuckled quietly to himself.

"Retinal hemorrhaging."

You didn't need to be a scientist to figure out what that meant, but he decided to ask anyway. Christopher sighed at the question. Getting annoyed.

"My eyes fuckin' bleed. Doesn't mean I cry blood or whatever, just the retina, you know, hemorrhages, and then I see weird black spots in my vision. So I squint."

"Isn't that, like, a huge problem?"

"It heals fine."

"But-"

"It heals fine."

Pedro decided not to push it further. Anger wasn't his goal.

What could he say? There had to be something. Anything- except that little confession from earlier.

Or-

No.

_No._

God, he couldn't. It was already cruel enough trying to make this poor bastard upset. The man was dying. He was tired. The caffeine perked him up a bit but he was still- he still looked so tired, so... so... sick.

Was he cruel? For wanting this? What part of him needed it so badly? Was it for revenge? Was it out of curiosity? Why did he care? What was the point? Why? _Why?_

...He had to. He needed to know.

Curiosity, then.

Of course.

*** * ***

"You said-"

The words got caught in his throat. But it seemed Christopher already knew what he was going to say, anyway. He ducked his head and his expression was hidden.

"Why?" he asked instead, desperation and yearning so clearly evident in his voice that it made him sick.

Christopher looked up. Pedro wished he hadn't. Curse the curiosity. Curse the pity. He would give anything, anything at all, if it meant he didn't have to see tears in this poor, poor man's eyes. Why did he have to push it?

"I remember holding the gun in my hands afterwards," Chris spoke quietly. The soft voice wasn't comforting anymore. "I remember feeling its weight. I remember I was sitting in the bathroom, and I'd just thrown up, and I thought about pointing it at my own head. But I was worried about the pain. So I put it away and told Ivana I was going for a walk. I remember I didn't write a note because I thought I didn't deserve it. And then I remember climbing the stairs to a building and standing so close to the edge that I almost threw up again. There was a fence just below me, a barbed-wire fence. I remember wondering how far I'd have to jump to avoid landing on it."

He turned his gaze away. Pedro released his breath.

"And then I remembered Ivana, and Peri, and my family back at home. I suddenly didn't want to do it anymore." Silence. "That was the first time I ever properly considered it. I haven't considered it again and I don't plan to." He blinked. Looked at Pedro through the corners of his eyes. "You ask why? It's because killing myself was better than living with the knowledge that I nearly murdered an innocent person."

_ *** * *** _

He stared longer, and for a very tense moment Pedro thought he was going to leave, but then his face scrunched up and the tears welling in his eyes fell.

"I can't- I can't help but- but, but- think about Ivana, and how she'd cry, and- and Peri, too- he- _both _of them have put their life on the line, _for me, _and I nearly threw it all down the _fucking_ drain. You know- you know Peri got shot? He took a fucking bullet for me. It was two years ago now, and- and he shoved me to the ground and he took the goddamn bullet. Right in his torso. Just here." He pointed to a spot below his ribs. "And I've never been shot _once. _I've never experienced that level of pain. Yet I had the- I had the audacity to point a gun at you and pull the fucking trigger! I shot you! You were hurt, you were bleeding, you could've died, and I would've gotten away scot-free and the world would've lost a brilliant fucking man! You don't _deserve_ this!"

There was silence. Chris had that distant look in his eyes. Without warning he collapsed to the floor with an audibly cry. He pressed his back against the counter and pulled his legs up to his chest, burying his head between his knees.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he sobbed. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

He sat there for a while. Apologising, over and over.

Too young. Far too young. Ripped from his life at twenty-five, being forced to spend what was supposed to be his golden years in a hellish existence. Thirty-five, now, ten years wasted, and now the poor bastard was dying. Shaking, trembling, wracked with sobs and unable to _stop. _Years of pent up emotion, building and building, then erupting like a volcano. Making it feel as though the very earth beneath you was shaking. Like the skies were being darkened and would never be light again. The ashraining down and suffocating you, burying you in your own self-pity. And all you could feel was despair. Nothing else mattered.

What a cruel joke.

How painfully _human._

Pedro felt for the scar on his shoulder. He always avoided looking at it, in mirrors, but sometimes in the shower, he found himself running a finger over it. A strange little scar. Shaped like a circle.

It didn't even twitch anymore. Sometimes he even forgot it was there at all. After a while the memory became such a blur, a whirlwind of emotions, that it didn't affect him as much anymore. Yes, yes, sometimes loud noises still startled him, and- he still hated answering the door. But... but... how much did it interfere with his life, really?

Hardly at all.

Pedro kneeled down on the floor. The kitchen tiles were cold, and he was wearing shorts, but he didn't pay it much mind. Slowly, he shuffled forward. Christopher had stopped muttering apologies and was now gently rocking back and forth, shaking and crying quietly.

Curse the pity.

Pity was what got Pedro into this mess. That first day, meeting Din; it was all pity. Maybe if he was a bad person he'd have a happier life.

...No.

Being kind was worth every second.

He reached out a hand. Hesitated, wondering if Christopher was like Din, and didn't like to be touched. He supposed it was a risk he'd need to take. So, he placed his hand overtop Christopher's.

He froze.

The hand was surprisingly warm. Pedro had expected it to be cold, with how pale the skin was.

Christopher looked up, just barely peeking over the top of his knees and through the hair that was now covering his eyes. It didn't do much to hide the red puffiness.

"I _can't_ forgive you," Pedro began, speaking as softly as he could without whispering, "yet. But I am more than willing to if you want to earn it."

"I don't deserve forgiveness," Chris murmured, voice muffled.

"Then you should get yourself to a point where you do."

"I don't know how. I want- I want to be better, I _need _to be better. But I can't. It's so hard. It's so fucking hard."

"You're starting to sound like Din."

Chris gave a bitter, watery smile. "I see a lot of myself in him. That probably doesn't bode well. Sorry."

Pedro took his hand away and let it drop to his side.

"Din's getting better. It's a slow process, but he's putting in a fuck-ton of effort. He hurt me too." He rolled up the sleeve on his left arm, exposing the scar left by Din's nails. It had faded since it first healed over, which was a good sign. Meant it wasn't going to be around forever.

"What'd he do?" Christopher asked.

"Dug his nails into my arm. The reasons are kind of personal so I'm not gonna get into that." He rolled his sleeve back down.

"Must've hurt."

"Like a bitch. But he apologised, though. I haven't forgiven him yet either. Do you wanna move to the couch? It's really uncomfortable down here."

He felt his legs falling asleep under him. The cold tiles certainly weren't helping, either. 

"Sure," Chris mumbled. "But I don't think I can get up."

Pedro stood up and held out a hand. Christopher stared at it, confused, then slowly reached out to take it. Pedro pulled him to his feet. He was surprisingly light.

They moved to the couch and sat down. The TV was still playing the news quietly in the background. Pedro gazed blankly at it for a moment, not really seeing it properly, but as he listened...

_"...woman and her child fell from the _sky _today in California..."_

"Oh my god."

"Holy shit."

Pedro snatched the remote from the coffee table and turned up the volume as loud as he dared. The news presenter's voice echoed through the living room.

_"...what appears to be some sort of _portal-_"_

"Holy shit!"

"Din! Din?! Din! Come down!"

"Holy fucking shit!"

Din sprinted down the stairs, and Pershing followed soon after, both looking wildly panicked.

"Din! It's Omera!"

"It's a fucking portal."

"And Winta, they're both here!"

"It's a _fucking _portal!"

Din looked pale. The news showed a video of Omera- _Omera! - _being wheeled away on a stretcher, into an ambulance- a paramedic carrying Winta in their arms-

_"Law enforcement is currently investigating-"_

"Which hospital are they going to?!" Pedro shouted. Christopher had already pulled out his phone though and was vigorously typing.

"It's- it's- hang on- Monterey Park Hospital! Uh, Atlantic Boulevard!"

"I'll get the car. Din! Din? Are you with me?"

Din looked over. His eyes were wide and he looked to be on the verge of tears. There was shock, mixed with confusion, and all sorts of negative emotions flashing across his face at once, but at the same time, buried beneath it all, there was relief. And joy.

"She's here," he rasped. "She's here."

"She is. And we're going to go see her. I don't know if they'll let us, but- but we're going to figure it out, okay?"

Pedro's phone was already going haywire. He reached into his pocket and turned it off. _No distractions._

"Din?"

Silence, then a subtle nod. "Okay."

"Okay."

_Okay._

_Let's go, then._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A list of hotlines. Please consider reaching out if you're struggling.
> 
> Argentina: +5402234930430
> 
> Australia: 131114
> 
> Austria: 017133374
> 
> Belgium: 106
> 
> Bosnia & Herzegovina: 080 05 03 05
> 
> Botswana: 3911270
> 
> Brazil: 212339191
> 
> Bulgaria: 0035 9249 17 223
> 
> Canada: 5147234000 (Montreal); 18662773553 (outside Montreal)
> 
> Croatia: 014833888
> 
> Denmark: +4570201201
> 
> Egypt: 7621602
> 
> Finland: 010 195 202
> 
> France: 0145394000
> 
> Germany: 08001810771
> 
> Holland: 09000767
> 
> Hong Kong: +852 2382 0000
> 
> Hungary: 116123
> 
> Iceland: 1717
> 
> India: 8888817666
> 
> Ireland: +4408457909090
> 
> Italy: 800860022
> 
> Japan: +810352869090
> 
> Mexico: 5255102550
> 
> New Zealand: 045861048
> 
> Netherlands: 09000113
> 
> Norway: +4781533300
> 
> Philippines: 028969191
> 
> Poland: 5270000
> 
> Russia: 0078202577577
> 
> Spain: 914590050
> 
> South Africa: 0514445691
> 
> Sweden: 46317112400
> 
> Switzerland: 143
> 
> United Kingdom: 116 123
> 
> USA: 18002738255


	33. You say that, but I don't believe it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cause you've been too busy thinking ahead  
Of where we're all going after we're dead  
To maybe consider our bodies are worth  
More than the dust that we can return

...

With... no small degree... of waiting, and "gentle coercion in the form of lies"... as Christopher had called it, Din stood before the hospital bed.

It hadn't registered properly, at first. It still hadn't. Not really.

He just remembered- Pedro yelling for him. He thought something had happened, that maybe that _bastard _had hurt him, but- no. No.

_She's here._

Everything leading up to this moment had been such a blur, it was difficult to understand... she was _actually _here. In a hospital bed.

Omera. Sleeping peacefully.

Injuries weren't serious. Fractured spine, they said, from the fall. But she didn't need surgery, it wasn't going to affect her posture, the fracture was stable. Winta, they said, though they did not call her Winta, was fine. Completely fine. She was out with one of the nurses getting food from the cafeteria. Which explained why Din hadn't seen her yet.

He wanted to see her later, but- for now... for now. He just wanted to sit by Omera's side.

The nurses said she was awake when they wheeled her in. When it was clear she didn't have a concussion - a miracle, really - they let her sleep.

The only real issue was the fractured spine. But all she'd need to do was wear a brace, and... do a lot of resting.

Din pulled a chair to the bedside. He sat down slowly, not allowing himself to take his eyes off of Omera for one second, like she was going to disappear if he looked away.

Pershing said he was going to use the refresher, but it had been a while, so Din just assumed that he was giving him some space. Which he was... grateful for. Pedro, in the meantime, was getting food as well, perhaps in hopes of running into Winta. Christopher had left the hospital entirely about ten minutes ago. As soon as they had access to Omera's room, the man picked up his backpack and left, muttering something under his breath.

Din wasn't about to complain about it, but it had been a bit strange.

Still.

It didn't matter.

She was... here. That was all that mattered. Omera was truly and physically _here._

Her chest slowly rising and falling as she breathed. She looked so peaceful.

She must've been so scared. _Falling _like that. Out of fucking nowhere, being pulled from her home... at least she had Winta, at least she had that. But they must've been so terrified. Those screams as they plummeted to the earth.

What if it had been higher? What if it hadn't been six feet, but ten? Fifteen? Twenty? Would they even still be here at all?

Winta... Winta would have been okay. Omera protected her. She used her body as... as a shield. Winta would have survived, but- Omera...

He didn't want to think about it.

She was okay. That was all that mattered. No need to dwell on what didn't happen.

Din didn't know how long he'd been sitting there. He knew, though, that at some point he began to feel like a goddamn creep, so he was grateful when Pedro and Peri walked through the door and he felt safe tearing his gaze away from her.

Peri sat in the farthest chair from the hospital bed. Pedro took a chair and moved it next to Din.

"Reckon she'll wake up soon?"

"Maybe," Din muttered.

"You'll have to explain who you are."

"Yeah."

He didn't want to explain. Explaining meant he had to refer to himself as _Mando, _and... that nickname made him feel sick, now. He could only hope that she'd recognise his voice, at least, but he knew his mannerisms had changed. He knew he sounded different.

He just... wanted her to recognise him. But he had no idea how long it had been for her. It could've been years.

He'd need to explain, too, why he wasn't wearing the helmet anymore. Why he _couldn't _wear it anymore. Or the rest of his armour.

What if she didn't like how he looked?

It was pretty clear, in the few weeks he stayed on Sorgan- or at least, he _assumed- _that she liked him, too, even without seeing his face. So what if she ended up disappointed? He didn't consider himself to be ugly, especially after spending so much time around Pedro he'd gotten used to seeing his own face as anything but, but people had their preferences...

He was probably fretting over nothing. He made a mental note to talk about it with Robert.

...Therapy. He'd almost forgotten about it, with everything going on in such a short amount of time. It was only yesterday. Time seemed to drag, lately, even with so much happening all the time.

He tried to convince himself he wasn't terrified, but damn, he was. It felt stupid, but he was. He was almost shaking during that session, and it felt pathetic. He'd been shot, stabbed, burned, anything you could think of, but as soon as the prospect of talking about _feelings _comes up he's already shaking in his boots. How ridiculous. Still... he'd felt a lot better when Robert explained how a lot of soldiers in war were nervous about therapy, too. He explained the history of 'shellshock' - which would later be known as post-traumatic stress. When Din asked... Robert agreed that it was something they could look into, together.

Depression, too.

It felt better to know more about it. Knowing he certainly wasn't alone. He'd cried after that session, but he wasn't sad. Just... relieved. It was the first time since he arrived that he thought, maybe he _could _be okay.

Eventually. If he tried very hard. It would be a "process", Robert said. Well, it was a process Din was willing to endure.

"Do you want us to leave when she wakes up?" Pedro asked. Din bit his lip, thinking.

He didn't want her to be overwhelmed. Three people she didn't recognise crowded in her hospital room... it would be disconcerting.

"If that's okay," he eventually said.

"Of course. You're the only one who's actually met her, it only makes sense."

There wasn't much to say after that. They just waited. Peri read a book he'd brought, Pedro scrolled through his phone, and Din... didn't do much at all. There wasn't anything he _wanted _to do. He had his phone with him, but scrolling through the travesty that was social media wasn't appealing. He could read some random wikipedia article, like he often did, but he somehow knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate on it.

He didn't know how long they'd been sitting there, but Peri finished his book, so it had to have been hours depending on how fast Peri could read. Which was very fast to be fair.

Eventually, though, Omera began to stir. The others left the room before Din could even say a word.

Her eyes fluttered open. Din's breath hitched in his throat. He realised, with a certain degree of dread, that he had _no _fucking clue what to say.

He watched her eyes move around the room, before eventually, after what felt like hours, they landed on Din.

He tried to speak, but all he could do was swallow harshly.

So beautiful. So beautiful.

"Are you one of the nurses?" she asked, uncertainly. Her voice was hoarse. Din decided he would bring her some water later.

He cleared his throat. Opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He wished he hadn't told Pedro and Peri to leave, now. Gods, he was so awkward. What was he supposed to say?

Omera looked uncomfortable now. Should he try to make eye contact? _No. _That would make it worse.

He cleared his throat again.

"No," he managed to say. "I'm- not."

He watched her face for a reaction, but none came. If she recognised the voice at all, she didn't let it show.

"Oh," she said. "Doctor, then-?"

He shook his head. Couldn't find the will to speak again. Throat felt tight.

Omera shifted where she lay. She was trying to meet his eyes, he could see, but every time she got closer he looked away.

Why? _Why? _Why couldn't he meet anyone's eyes? Why couldn't he meet _her _eyes? They were so beautiful. He wanted to see that gorgeous deep brown. It wasn't fair.

The least he could do was speak. He needed to say something. So he tried again, trying desperately to keep the shaking out of his voice.

"Y-You might not remember," he began, slowly. "I was... I'm the, the-" he swallowed. The word felt like poison. It was bitter. He didn't even think about it anymore, he made a point not to. So talking about it? Even mentioning it? Gods, it hurt. But he couldn't just- _not._

He was staring again. She looked concerned and- was that fear? _Fuck._

_Swallow your fucking pride._

"I'm Mando," he rasped.

It didn't appear to register, at first. She stared with that look of deep concern. But then, it clicked; her eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

"The Mandalorian," she breathed. Din tried to hide the wince.

Then, though, her expression darkened and she frowned.

"Prove it," she demanded.

Lying in that hospital like she was, she shouldn't have been so intimidating, but Din felt intimidated nonetheless.

"I don't know how," he said quietly.

"Tell me something only he would know."

What? _What? _What could he possibly say? He considered calling in Pedro, for help, but... no. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly. He could. He could do it.

"On my last day," he began, "on Sorgan. You tried to remove my helmet. And I wouldn't let you."

She shook her head. "No."

"No?"

"No. Something else."

What else? What else could there possibly be? His mind was running completely blank. He felt stupid, and he was sure he looked stupid, but there was nothing to say.

Was there something he could show her? It couldn't be his armour, he didn't carry it around, and he'd (regretfully) left his blaster in his bedside drawer.

Maybe... maybe...

"On- on my first day on Sorgan. You came to me, in the little cottage, and asked when the last time I'd taken off my helmet was. And I said- I said 'yesterday', because I misunderstood. And there was an awkward silence, and I felt stupid, even when you corrected me."

He glared down at the floor, trying to hide the flush creeping up on him. But then there was a hand overtop his own, a cold sensation, and he had to physically resist the urge to tear it away.

_That, _he thought bitterly to himself, _is just unfair._

Even her?

When would it _end?_

He looked over at her. She bore an expression of sympathy and concern.

"You can't possibly be him," she whispered. Din's chest tightened.

"Why?" he asked quietly, unsure if he could say much else without bursting into tears.

"You are too different."

His vision blurred. Tried to blink the tears away. They persisted, as did the knot in his throat. Tried to speak, but all that came out was a pathetic whimper.

"But you are, aren't you?" Her hand left his own and instead reached up toward his face. Despite himself, he didn't stop it.

The gentle touch sent a barrage of chills down his spine. Everything about it screamed _danger _and _wrong _but he couldn't find it within himself to move away.

The last person who tried to touch his face was... Pedro. See how well _that_ went.

"Where is your helmet? Your armour? What happened to you?"

He tried to stop it. He really did. But it was too much. All at once his emotions came pouring out of him, in the form of salty unrelenting tears. He tried to be quiet but it all felt so loud, so loud that he was sure Pedro and Peri could hear beyond the door.

But it didn't matter. He didn't _care._

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something, _hit _something. But he couldn't. He couldn't do that. So he cried. Cried so hard and so long that his throat was hurting and his eyes were stinging, he couldn't see anything anymore and every breath made way for more pain, and more crying, and more crying, and just- just-

But he was supposed to, wasn't he? Wasn't he supposed to cry? Wasn't that just human? Was it not- _better _than holding it all in, holding it all back, locking it away in a vault- for it to overflow and _explode?_

Why did it have to hurt? Emotionally yes but physically, too- why did it have to sting his eyes? Why did it have to attack his throat? Why couldn't he just cry without the pain? Why did there need to be pain? What was the point?

_What's the point?_

He vaguely registered the door opening, but he didn't care. Nor did he care when a hand rested itself on his back and moved up and down... he didn't pay much mind to Omera sitting up in her bed and reaching out for a hug, and he didn't really control leaning into it, either.

He just knew that he eventually stopped crying. But everything still hurt.

Another hour passed, and he'd calmed down enough to drink some water. It didn't ease the hurt, but at least the cold felt good in his throat.

Introductions were initially... confusing. For Omera. He and Pedro looked the same, so she assumed- or, was it really an assumption? Was it? They might as well have been twins, even if their ages were different.

But Pedro explained.

Sort of.

A lot of important details were skipped. But they couldn't overwhelm her. They'd tell her later. Maybe. But- they explained the dimensions, the portal - _portal! _\- in as much detail as they possibly could. Neither of them had seen it, the damn footage on the news didn't capture it, but reports were coming in from the area. It was orange, and Omera agreed; yes, the light that engulfed her vision was orange, too. _Distinctly _she said. Given the situation, given everything else... she took it well. Took it better than Din initially had at any rate. Or maybe she was just putting on a brave face.

Pedro left again, after all was said and done.

Omera sat upright in the bed. Her posture was stiff. A result of the brace, he imagined. It didn't suit her. Not at all.

"This is all so..." she waved her hand in an improvised motion.

"Confusing?" Din offered. She hesitated, then nodded.

"Usually I'd think I've gone crazy, but- but this is... real. I can feel it. I can sense it." She paused. Frowned. "I feel wrong. I feel-"

"Like you're not in your own body?"

She stared at him incredulously. "Well- yes. That's one way of putting it."

"We all feel it."

"Winta... she must feel it too."

It wasn't fair. What they had to go through. Din was happy that- ... no, he was _elated _that they were here. But they didn't deserve it. They didn't deserve to feel it. That wrongness. What must it be like? For a child?

Perhaps it was a mercy that the kid didn't come through. It meant- it meant he wouldn't have to feel it.

The very weight of reality pushing against them.

Din stared down at the floor. He felt cold, but the room was warm. He never bothered to wipe away the tear stains. Shivering and dishevelled; he must've looked awful.

"Where is she?" he asked. He still hadn't seen her. It'd been an hour, and he just... wanted to see her. Winta was such a sweet girl.

"She went for a walk with one of the nurses. They've been so kind. But where is your boy?"

His stomach dropped. He'd been hoping - praying - that she wouldn't ask. But she did. It was inevitable. _Inevitable._

"He's not-" his voice cracked. "...He didn't come through. With me. He didn't- I don't know where he is. I've been here for three months, I think, and I don't- _know _where he is. Or if he's safe. Or even still alive."

He heard Omera shift in the hospital bed. Her legs appeared from under the sheets and hung over the side. He looked up just in time to see her get to her feet. She wobbled for a moment, and he reached out a hand, but she waved it away.

"Walk with me?"

He'd already leapt to his feet. Omera smiled at him and gestured toward the door.

"We might find Winta along the way."

He decided to follow her out the door. Her walk was simultaneously unsteady and stiff, and with her now almost sickly appearance it was difficult to refrain from holding her steady so she did not fall. So he walked behind to keep an eye out.

He knew she didn't need help, but... still.

They passed Pedro halfway down the hall - Peri nowhere to be seen - sitting in a chair and scrolling through his phone with a drink of some kind in his other hand. He only looked up briefly; Din waved his hand to say he was okay, Pedro nodded and stared back down at his phone.

He didn't really know where he was going. Omera seemed to have a little understanding at least. When he asked, she said she'd asked for a map and the nurses had graciously given her one.

They walked slowly. Omera said she was allowed to be out and about, but she had to be careful.

"I think the nurses thought I was delirious. Kept rambling about things from my- what was it?"

"Dimension."

"Dimension. Yes. I'm glad I stopped because I _swear_, if they had done one more test I would have screamed."

Omera pushed open a double door and Din was hit with the smell of food. It was only then that he realised how _hungry _he was. His mouth salivated at the sight of the small little cafeteria.

But Omera didn't stop to look. She kept walking, so Din followed her into the next corridor. She rounded a few corners, and eventually, they found themselves at the entrance to a small little garden.

The breeze rushed over them as she shoved open the door. A chill ran down Din's spine but it was not unpleasant. It wasn't cold, the day was warm, and the breeze was merely a pleasant counter to it.

The door shut behind them. Omera let out a sad sigh.

"I can finally think," she muttered. "Walk beside me. I want to talk with you."

The path was narrow so they were practically shoulder by shoulder. Every so often their hands would brush against each other and Din swore his heart stopped every single time. It wasn't... _fair. _It wasn't fucking fair, how fast his heart beat around her. How breathtaking she was. How soft her skin felt.

It wasn't fair.

"I'm... sorry. About your boy."

Birds were chirping in the distance.

"It's fine."

They were far enough from the road to not hear the oncoming traffic.

"You say that, but I don't believe it."

Flowers danced gently in the wind, and so did the distant trees.

"It's been difficult."

The grass sparkled indicating that it had rained the night before. Must've slept through it.

"It's always difficult. It never stops being difficult, even if you're sure they're barely a room away."

It smelled faintly of petrichor. He always liked that scent.

"I feel lost without him. He was my purpose."

There were crickets. Not loud, but present enough to be noticeable.

"It must feel terrible. I can't even imagine."

Weeds were growing between cracks in the pavement. It was pretty.

"Feels like everything is collapsing. All the time. Like the sky is falling. I tried to write it down, describe it, I thought it could help."

A bird landed on the grass to the side. It looked up at them almost expectantly. For food, probably.

"Did it?"

Din stopped walking. He pulled out a muesli bar from his pocket and pulled off a piece, throwing it to the bird who greedily swallowed it whole.

"A little. It's spoken word."

It stared up at him for more. He threw another piece.

"What does that mean?"

It swallowed that one, too. He threw another.

"It's a form of poetry. I think. Focuses on shit like intonation. And wordplay. I like it. Isn't cheesy like regular poetry."

Another bird joined, landed gracefully on the grass. And then another one. Three birds stared up at him expecting more. He wondered how often the birds were being fed by humans to be so trustful and eager.

"Can I read some of what you've written?"

He threw a few pieces this time, and the birds fought over them.

"It's... private."

A gust of wind rushed over them, and Din's hair fell into his eyes. Needed a cut.

"I understand."

Kind of liked how it looked, though. So used to having it short. Longer, it was wavy.

"I wanted to get into journalism for a while. Only thing I can really do properly. Gods know I can't hold a proper job."

Maybe he'd just let it grow out. Not too long though.

"Used to?"

He could always cut it if it became too much.

"Got too depressed."

The muesli bar was gone. The birds slowly dispersed when no more food came, leaving Din and Omera alone again.

He felt tired. Not fatigued, no, just tired. Like if he sat down he would fall asleep instantly. He didn't want to do that, though. Omera was _here, _and he was talking to her. He was talking to Omera.

There was no response. He turned to look at her, to make sure she was okay. She stared down at the grass where the birds had just been with a thoughtful look on her face. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her mouth was pulled into a subtle frown.

She was beautiful.

Her dark hair. Her golden skin. Her eyes. Gods, her eyes. They _saw _him. When she looked at him, she saw him. Not as the Mandalorian; as Din. Even Pedro didn't look at him that way. But she did. She could see him. Even if eye-contact wasn't an option, she looked at him and saw him and that's all he could ever ask for.

"Depressed," she mumbled. Then turned to him. "I'm sorry. I can see how much pain you're carrying. The way you walk, the way you talk. I wish I could take the burden from you."

"Even if you could I wouldn't let you." He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Turned his eyes toward the ground, at the concrete path below them. "It's like a hurricane. Everything and nothing all at once." He remembered describing it the same way to Pedro. He remembered being so afraid, afraid of judgement, but it never came. There was never judgement.

"Talk to me."

He looked up at her. Stared at her chin, but wished dearly he could look into her eyes.

"What about?"

"Anything you like. I'll listen."

"Talking is difficult."

"You're doing quite alright so far."

Another gush of wind blew over them. The breeze on his skin, his hair in the wind, all things that used to bother him; it felt cathartic.

It felt right.

"A lot of shit happened." He sank down to the ground, sat cross-legged on the concrete. "I don't know where to start."

"The beginning usually helps."

The concrete was warm. It felt nice, he almost wanted to lie down on it. Sleep, side by side with her.

"Okay. Okay, the beginning."

He wasn't entirely sure how long he talked for. He didn't much care, either. He spoke about his first day, barely three months ago. He spoke about Pedro taking him in, and how tame everything felt then compared to now. He spoke about Jon, but skipped the part about the show, and the set - _not now. _He spoke about... Christopher, appearing at their door, spoke about hearing that _gunshot _and that scream, which, the more he thought about it, wasn't entirely sure if it had belonged to Pedro or not. He spoke about taking Pedro back, running through that strange hideout, talked about the technology they wielded. He spoke about Christopher - and his wife - coming back, and knocking them unconscious, and having to move to a different house while Jon drove them to a hospital. Talked little about Peri, though did not call him Peri, and talked about that day, sitting in the parking lot while Pedro broke drown, feeling _useless - _but Omera reassured him, she did, she took a hold of his hand did not let go. He rattled off each little event, every little insignificant thing. Talked about the convention, passing out, talked about hurting Pedro, feeling so _guilty, _wondering if Christopher felt it, too. Spoke about the armour, the helmet, how he couldn't wear it anymore. Spoke about Samantha. Spoke about the cat, explained what a cat was, explained how she... reminded him of the kid, but she was still a comfort, somehow. Something to care for, something to love. Talked about the _therapy, _explained what a therapist was. Talked about his fear, his uncertainty. Mentioned post-traumatic stress, but did not dare to linger. Expressed how, that, despite what Christopher had done... he felt concern, he did. What was wrong with him? Was he ill? He didn't know; this bothered him. Even more so bothered him that- that he felt concern at all. But Omera reassured him again, said it just meant he was a good person, and after that there was no stopping the next onslaught of tears.

But soon enough, he had calmed.

"We should head back," he sniffled. "Pedro might be getting worried."

"Winta might have returned, too."

She got to her feet. Offered Din a hand and pulled him up. Her grip was tight, strong. She did not let go. Din did not complain.

They left the garden, eventually found themselves back in the cafeteria. Din found himself wishing he hadn't given his entirely muesli bar to the birds, but any thought of it was quickly forgotten when he felt Omera's thumb run over the back of his hand.

The walk back to the room was the best he'd felt in decades. The feeling in his chest was tight, so tight, so overwhelming, but he welcomed it. That awful flutter. It felt incredible. There was too much of it, and he relished in that.

Pedro didn't even look up when they passed by him this time.

Omera pushed open the hospital room's door. It creaked open-

"Mama!"

Winta sat on the bed, her legs hanging over the edge, swinging back and forth. She bore a large grin, but as her eyes landed on Din... she froze, the smile turned into a frown.

"Who's that?" she asked loudly. Her eyes flicked down to where Din and Omera's hand interlocked.

"Winta." Omera closed the door behind them. "Do you remember the nice man who helped chase away the bad ones?"

Winta squinted her eyes, thinking, then all at once her face lit up. "Yes!"

_How long had it been for them?_

Omera placed her other hand on Din's arm. He physically resisted jolting away- needed to talk to her about that.

"This is the same man," she said. "He was brought here just like us."

"Why?"

"We don't know why, sweetheart."

"Is the baby here too?!"

Din's stomach dropped for the second time that day. He didn't want to talk about the kid. Omera let go of his hand and stepped toward the bed. She took a seat next to Winta.

"The baby isn't here," she explained softly. "He wasn't brought to this place."

"Why?"

"We don't know."

Winta stared up at Din, frowning, then looked down at the floor. "But isn't he _your _baby?"

"Winta..." Omera began, but Din shook his head, kneeling down on the floor. He stared at Winta's forehead, hoping it gave some illusion of eye-contact.

"He is my baby," he said, forcing the shakiness out of his voice. "And it does upset me that I don't have him. But we're working on it. Getting home. And when we figure it out, you can go home, too."

_We'll all go home. And then I'll never see them again._

"Where are we?" Winta sniffled. She leaned against Omera's shoulder.

"This is... a different dimension. Do you know what a dimension is?"

She shook her head.

"Okay. You know the Universe? Yes? Well, there are many universes. We've been transported to a different one. This planet is called Earth. It's not safe like Sorgan, there are some very big cities, and there are some... bad people who don't like that we're here. So you need to stay with your mother."

"Or the nurses?"

"Or the nurses. Someone you know and trust."

They talked. For a little while. When Winta fell asleep, and Omera had finished eating the pastry brought back from the cafeteria, she moved to the floor and sat across from Din. Offered her hand. He took it.

"People don't like that we're here?" she spoke softly. "Who?"

Din cleared his throat. "We don't know," he responded as quietly as he could. "But, according to Christopher, these people, maybe a group? They've been stalking Pedro and I since I got here. Christopher and Ivana have been warding them off."

She hummed. Absentmindedly caressed Din's hand. So soft, so caring.

"I find it strange how you talk about this man."

"Christopher, you mean?"

"Yes. I was under the impression that you did not like him."

"I hate him."

"But it doesn't sound that way."

What did that even mean? He _did _hate Christopher. Despised him. Every inch, every second spent, Din despised it all.

"He shot Pedro. I _hate _him."

She sighed sadly. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm exhausted." As she said this, she yawned, and her eyes flickered closed.

"You should rest."

"Mm."

But she didn't move from her spot on the floor. Her eyes remained closed, though, even as she continued to caress Din's hand. Every touch felt like- like a jolt of electricity through his arm. Her hand was warm. Skin was so soft. It was barely early evening, but still he felt his eyes begin to droop.

Not letting go of her hand, he shifted around on the floor until he was leaning against the end of the bed, the back of his head resting on the mattress. There was nothing, for a moment, but then he felt something at his side, a warmth. Omera leaned against him, her head rested on his shoulder. Breathed deep; calm.

He closed his eyes, and did not open them again until much, much later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	34. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, don't leave me here alone  
Don't tell me that we've grown  
For having loved a little while  
Oh, I don't want to be alone  
I want to find a home  
And I want to share it with you

20th March 2020

It was strange.

Peri had only ever seen that look in Christopher. The adoration, euphoria. Like nothing else mattered. It was a beautiful sight to behold. Peri saw it in old photographs, too, that Christopher stored. The day of their wedding, that adoration. That look. It never changed, even after ten years, living through hell. The affection, the devotion, elation in each other's presence. It remained a beautiful constant.

But now he could see it in Djarin. Every morning, when he got up, and Pascal drove him to the hospital. He saw it. And then he would return, much later in the day, with a giddy look on his face, and that pep in his walk, his stance.

It felt strange to see it in that man's eyes.

Even worse, it only served as a reminder for Friday.

A date.

He was... going on a date.

To be really very frankly honest, he'd never been so terrified. He made himself sick, just thinking about it. At the time the adrenaline and the flutter in his chest was enough to keep him going, but, as the week moved by, and the date approached, he was genuinely frightened.

He wasn't surprised when he woke up at 5am the day of and needed to throw up. He barely made it to the bathroom in time, and woke up Pascal in the process of sprinting down the hall.

"Are you okay? You sick?"

He shook his head, but even as he did so he gagged.

"When you're feeling better come out to the kitchen."

He sat there, on his knees and hunched over the toilet bowl for another five minutes before he felt well enough to stand. After rinsing his mouth out he slowly made his way toward the kitchen, where Pascal was propped up on the counter.

"Come here. I want to check your temperature."

Peri leaned on the bench. He scrunched up his face as he felt the thermometer being shoved into his ear. Silence, then an unpleasant beep. The thermometer was pulled out.

"Temperature's fine. No fever. How's the nausea?"

"Fine," Peri grumbled. Pascal sighed.

"Yes, because vomiting into a toilet bowl at five in the morning is 'fine'. You might be sick."

"Jus' my luck."

Pascal dropped down from the counter and put the thermometer to the side.

"What time are you supposed to be there?"

"6pm."

"If you're not feeling better by five, you have to stay home."

Peri glared stubbornly out the window. It was dark, the sun still hadn't risen. Wouldn't for another hour or so.

It really was just his luck. He'd been so looking forward to it. Despite the nerves, he really, _really _wanted this. He'd been talking to Asher all week, and each time his phone buzzed his heart skipped a beat. He _wanted _this. To- to be _with _this person. Asher was beautiful, inside and out. Through and through. He would send photographs of himself making funny faces and he was beautiful then, too.

He knew he wasn't sick. He'd barely even left the house. It was just the damn nerves. He always felt sick when he got anxious. Christopher was the same, but worse, so he knew how to help, but... well, it was five in the morning. Even he didn't stay up that late. Or... early, he supposed.

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"Talk to me. You're nervous. It's not going to help."

Bitter. He felt bitter. He'd been so excited, so happy, but it all felt like it was crashing down. Because of what? Because he was nervous?

"Not much to talk about," he grumbled.

Pascal didn't respond. Only sighed, and turned toward the kettle. Peri watched as he made a cup of black coffee. He almost considered making one himself, but figured that caffeine probably wouldn't help the nerves.

"Look," Pascal finally spoke. "Look. I know this is difficult, I mean, really damn difficult. I don't have anxiety, or, any of that other stuff, so I don't really get it. At all. But if you say something awkward, and he's a _dick _about it, then he's not worth worrying over."

"He- he wouldn't do that."

"Then what's the problem? He _likes you. _One misplaced word isn't going to dissuade him from that."

_But what if it does?_

_What will I do then?_

_I will lose him. _ _I can't lose him._

It was so- it was so very unfair. If it wasn't starvation, or, or being shot, or assaulted, it was the _trivial _things. The worry; ate away at you, piece by piece. Sometimes it was warranted. Usually it had been, even before the dimension fuckery, but living with Pascal... slowly, matters became steadily more trivial, like being afraid to use the fucking refresher in fear of... what, exactly? Feeling like an invader? Ridiculous. Still, it ate away at him.

"I have lost too many people to be anything less than cautious."

His own tone of voice surprised him. It felt familiar, but he couldn't ever recall using it before, until he saw Pascal's expression. Oh. That was Christopher's tone, wasn't it? Quiet, but desperate, praying words were enough. They never were.

Peri stared down at the floor. "I feel fine now. Thanks for talking to me."

He left. 

* * *

It was daunting. Even sitting in the car, staring out the window.

He could see Asher standing outside, his phone in hand. Wearing a woollen vest, and a light blue button-down shirt- gods, it was so dorky, and he adored it.

"You gonna get out, or you just gonna sit there and stare?"

Pascal bore a knowing smirk. In any other circumstance Peri would be annoyed, but... couldn't bring himself to it.

"It's just- I've never done this before."

"You'll be fine. He likes you."

_He likes me. _No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't wrap his head around it. He'd never... seen himself as someone who was particularly attractive. Both Ivana _and _Christopher had told him otherwise, but he couldn't help it. Working as he did, as an Imperial... didn't exactly give way for many opportunities in terms of _romance, _nor friendship, really, so the most compliments he'd ever received prior to the dimension hop were regarding his work-ethic from colleagues, and even then they felt backhanded. Jealous. It wasn't _his _fault that they were all _stupid._

Anyway.

_He likes me._

He'd just... need to accept it. And hope the feeling didn't expire.

"You want me to walk you to the door, or-?"

"No!"

Pascal laughed loudly. "Go _on, _then. Don't keep the poor man waiting."

Another quick glance out the window. Already feeling self-conscious. Asher looked amazing, incredible, and all Peri was wearing was a plain white button-down with cheap jeans.

But... Pascal was right. He couldn't sit there for hours. He was already late enough as it was.

So, with a final ounce of courage, he pulled the handle and pushed open the door.

The cold hit him instantly. He wished he'd worn something warmer, even just a second shirt, but it was too late to turn back now...

It didn't matter. He shut the door softly behind him. Heard the car begin to drive away as he approached Asher by the entrance. He recognised the location, passed it multiple times. It wasn't anything fancy, which was one of the things he'd been concerned about, initially...

He'd packed spare money, just in case. Leftover from the few jobs he'd had over the years. It was enough to pay for a cheap meal, at least.

Asher still hadn't looked up from his phone. Peri considered waiting, at first, but he was _cold, _goddammit. So he stepped forward.

"Hi," he said. Asher finally glanced up from his phone, and a wide grin spread across his face- Peri's heart skipped a beat.

"Hey! You're here! You look amazing."

Hardly. But with the certainty in Asher's voice... maybe he could believe it, for a little while.

"You- you too," he stammered. He held his hands out in front of him, not knowing what to do, or how to stand, even where to look-

"I just sort of threw this outfit together," Asher chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. "It's nothing special. Should we-?" He gestured to the door behind him. Peri could see into the restaurant. It wasn't busy, thank goodness. Or at least... not busy for a Friday night's standards.

"Sure. Sure, yes."

Asher grinned again, that beautiful grin, such a genuine smile. He held out a hand, and it took Peri a good three seconds before he realised he was supposed to take it.

So he did.

The rush of emotions following, he couldn't describe it. No words in any language could ever describe it. But with a gun to his head, he'd say it was bliss.

The soft touch of his hand, gentle tug as he was pulled through the restaurant. How had he gone his whole life, without something like this? To ground him? It seemed impossible now, unthinkable, how he could have possibly lived without this.

Peri sat at the table, Asher sat opposite. Wanted to keep holding his hand... couldn't. Later, maybe...

"I've never been here before," Asher spoke, "But my sister recommended me. Here's to hoping she isn't pulling my leg."

"You mentioned you have a sister over messages."

Two glasses of water were placed down in front of them. They both muttered their thanks.

"You remembered!" Asher exclaimed. "She's brilliant. You'd love her."

Peri tried to picture her. Dark skin, frizzy hair, those green eyes. But then Asher pulled out his phone and brought up a photograph. He pointed at a pale girl standing next to him in some snow.

"That's her!" he announced proudly. "She's, hmm, five years older than me?"

Her hair was frizzy, yes, and very long, too. But she was pale. Half-sibling? Adopted, maybe? Or perhaps they merely had interracial parents. Not something to ask about over a date, though.

"She's very pretty," Peri hummed. 

"Not as pretty as you."

It took him a moment to process. He stared blankly, blinked. When he realised... his entire face heated up, from his nose to his ears. He surely looked like a tomato. Embarassing! But Asher laughed, a beautiful joyful laugh, and suddenly it wasn't so embarrassing anymore.

"Well-" he tried to think of something to say, but all that came out was, "Mmff!" And Asher laughed again.

He'd be okay.

* * *

"Is it just me..."

Peri looked up from the menu, trying his best to hide the distaste in his expression. _Nothing _was appealing to him. Which was an awful thought to have, because- he remembered living on the streets, half the things on this menu he would have _killed _for, but... well, he wasn't living on the streets anymore.

"...or are the options on this thing like... really crap?"

Oh thank goodness. Asher shared his sentiments. Peri nodded, folded the menu back over.

"I didn't want to say anything," he muttered. "But yes."

Asher, too, folded over his menu, and placed it down on the table.

"If we leave now, we won't have to pay."

Oh. 

Peri opened up the menu again, scanned it one last time, then sighed sadly and closed it.

"We can just walk around, or something," Asher continued. "Or find somewhere else to go."

_Oh!_

A walk... sounded nice. Really nice, actually. It had been so long since he just _wandered, _without a care. Taking in the fresh air, feeling the breeze against his skin. It was dangerous, being alone. There had been far too many close calls with whoever those _people _were, stalking them. Even with Christopher ensuring everyone's safety, sometimes those people got cocky. So they never travelled alone anymore. Always made sure to be around other people. Those bastards weren't stupid enough to attack under the watchful eye of the public.

So he agreed. Nodded enthusiastically, trying to bite back a grin and absolutely failing. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, in this moment, except for Asher, and their date. 

They left. Peri didn't even feel embarrassed as one of the waiters frowned at them.

The sky was slightly darker than before. Had to have been half an hour, at least, since they arrived. The sun would set in about an hour, which gave plenty of time.

They set off down the street, in comfortable silence. Nothing except the passing cars and their own footsteps against the concrete. Hardly anyone else was out and about walking, not at rush hour.

He wasn't even cold. Even with the biting breeze, it was like the presence of Asher alone kept him warm. Even more so when he felt his hand being clasped by another.

They walked in silence, for a long while. They didn't need to speak. Hand in hand was enough, and so was the occasional brush of each other's shoulders.

Peri had... been in relationships before. Sort of, ish, they were complicated. As an Imperial, oh, how old was he then? Twenty? There was another boy. To call it a proper relationship would be an exaggeration, really, it was more like... what was the phrase? Friends with benefits. Except they weren't really friends, either. Colleagues with benefits, perhaps. And then there was one other, when he was older, that was more proper but, ah, didn't last long. Then there was that one he met on the streets. Sweet, kind... they helped each other, loved each other, and then Peri lost him, too. Either he ran off or he was murdered. Didn't care to find out. 

So he was scared.

Gods, he was terrified.

What if? What if he lost Asher, too? What if, by being with him, he was putting him in danger? What if the universes decided he couldn't have nice things? Peri had never been very superstitious. But some part of him still believed in the Godesses he was brought up with. Couldn't find it within himself to let it go, his parents had been so devout. He still remembered that Shiraya statue that sat on their bedside.

So, then, what if this was his punishment? For being an Imperial, doing what he did? Never to truly grasp joy.

If... if that was the case, then he'd accept it. But it might not be. So he'd fight for it, for his happiness. So long as everyone else got to be happy, too.

"It's getting dark," Asher spoke suddenly. Peri looked up and saw that the sky was a soft shade of pink. The sun was setting already? How long had they been walking for?

"Yeah," he hummed. He still recognised the area, which was... good. He knew if he got lost he could quite easily call Pascal, or even Christopher if he needed to, but it was still a comfort to be someplace familiar.

It was busier, now, more people walking about. He voiced this, and Asher hummed thoughtfully. They kept walking.

As they walked the crowd started to grow thicker, even as the night grew darker. Before long the sky was pitch black. A clear night, littered with stars. Every now and then Peri would find himself looking up at them. 

Perhaps one day Earth would unlock space travel, too. Until then...

"I found the source of all the people." Asher nudged his arm. Peri looked where he was pointing; a market, small but pretty, and packed with people. The stalls were lined up on both sides of the road, and roads had been blocked off on either end. Some sort of event. "Wanna check it out?"

Come to think of it, it was probably a bad idea. Such a large crowd... Peri had been mistaken for Omid on _multiple _occasions and it's never fun having to explain that he was 'just a doppleganger'. He certainly didn't want to have to do that in front of Asher. But... Gods, yes. He really _did _want to check it out. Walk about, hand in hand, not caring about anything else, for _once. _

So he said yes. And the glee on Asher's face was worth everything.

There were little fairy lights hung up on some of the stalls. Asher stopped at many to see what they were; usually soaps, or tiny little cupcakes, sometimes jewellery, but they never bought anything, until they found a stall that sold little plants in pots. Peri watched, with some degree of amusement, as Asher fawned over them, exclaiming how cute they were and rambling on about his other plants at home. Peri glanced around at the other stalls all the while, his hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets. He saw something, in the distance, and at first he thought it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but-

Oh.

That man. He recognised that man. Far too often, he'd laid eyes upon him. Far too often he'd caught the gaze of this onlooker. Didn't know the name. But recognised him. Narrow shoulders, long legs. Short arms. 5'10, at least. Mousey brown hair with a receding hairline. Dark, tightly fit clothes.

Their gazes lingered on each other, for what felt like the hundredth time. Slowly, Peri pulled out his phone, and sent a message to Christopher.

_I'm being watched._

The reply was instantaneous.

_Ok. Enjor ur evening. Ill keep a look out. _

_Which one? _

_B_ _r_ _own hair. Middle-aged._

_Do u want me to be there physically. Or is using the cameras ok._

_There's a lot of people here, so I think I'm safe. If he tries anything now everyone will see._

A brief pause.

_I'll just use the cameras then. Do u have ur pocket knife?_

_Of course._

_Ok._

There was nothing else after that, so Peri carefully placed his phone back into his pocket. Checked the other one to ensure the knife really was there. It was a reflex, now, carrying it everywhere. He didn't need to think about it anymore. It was a mercy that he'd never needed to use it.

"Look at it, look at it, Peri... it's so cute."

He turned around, looked down at the potted plant Asher was holding in his hands. It was in a pot with a face and ears like a dog. Peri hummed in agreement.

"You mentioned you'd like to take care of a plant, do you want it? I want to get you something."

"Oh! Oh."

_Oh._

He couldn't... but, oh, he was _offering, _and... but surely, it wasn't something he needed... but look at him! _He wants to do this for you_. But...

"O-Only- Only if you let me buy you something, too!" he exclaimed. He'd brought money with him, after all, so- so why not put it to use?

But Asher shook his head. "You don't have to do that."

"No one_ has_ to do anything."

A blank stare, for a moment, and Peri felt his heart begin to quicken, but then Asher broke out into a smile and a chuckle.

"Okay. Okay, you got me. If it means I get you this plant, then, sure. You can get me something too, but, but something small!"

"Deal."

Asher handed over a five dollar note - cheaper than he'd been expecting, good - that he'd already been holding in his hand. Then reached out to hand Peri the plant.

It truly was cute, but somehow, now that it was his... it was even better. He took it, held it in his palm.

"You should give it a name," Asher said. "I give all my plants names." Peri stared at it for a little longer.

_A name._

"What do people usually name their plants?"

"Mine are named after people I care about. Or celebrities. I have a Robert Downey Jr. cactus."

_A name._

"Christopher."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Asher offered his hand, and once again, Peri took it.

They continued to explore, moving from stall to stall, even ones they weren't interested in, they would stop at, and look. Never once did Peri feel bored, not with Asher's constant presence, by his side, never leaving, gods, it felt- incredible. So incredible, every small touch. When the crowd grew thick Asher's hold on his hand would tighten, and just- just-

Wouldn't trade it for anything.

But- at some point, it began to spit. Just light rain, nothing to be concerned about, until it began to grow heavier, and heavier, and _lightning _flashed in the sky, with it an abundance of thunder. They ducked for cover as the sky rumbled, stalls were urgently dragged under the overhang of closed shops. The sky lit up once again, another clap of thunder, so loud and so near that you could not hear the downpour over it.

"It's right above us!" Asher yelled into the rain. "We need to get inside!"

"Most places are closed!" Peri called back. "Or just about!" 9pm, now, so late. They had been walking for so long! Time had flown by...

Asher pulled out his phone, opened google maps. Stared at it for a moment, thinking, then put the phone back into his pocket.

"My apartment is ten minutes away! If we run, we can make it in five!"

His _apartment? _But- no, no, no... His expression must have looked awful because immediately Asher was waving his hand in front of him, back and forth, shaking his head.

"I don't mean- nooo, I just- to shelter from the rain! You can leave once it's over, and- I didn't mean to _imply-_"

"It's- it's okay. Sorry, yes. That's probably... for the best."

Couldn't help it. Couldn't help but feel shaken. Why? So stupid. 

"Are you- okay?"

"Fine." He did not sound convincing. 

Silence. Asher stared. Peri looked away, anywhere but into those eyes. Focused on a puddle beginning to form on the road.

"Peri, I don't want you to think that I want- I mean, sure, but-" Peri's heart skipped a beat. Not in a good way. "-not any time soon and not if you _don't- _I just think we should get out of the rain. But we can try to find someplace that's still open if that's more comfortable, for you."

He trusted Asher. He did. But now the thought wouldn't leave his mind, _intrusive, _it refused. 

"Your apartment is fine," he finally said. "Sorry. Really sorry, it's- sensitive subject."

He did not seem to understand, but that was okay. He did not need to. Asher nodded, slowly, hesitantly. Then once again offered his hand for Peri to take. Once again, he took it, and allowed himself to be pulled through the street.

There was no talking for a while. They did not run, yet the storm raged on. In fact, their pace was quite slow, compared to before. They would be walking for a while.

Asher stopped before a crossing. Pressed the button on the side, waited for the sign to light up green. Peri listened to the incessant ticking.

"I'm sorry that I made you uncomfortable," Asher muttered. Peri waited for some sort of continuation, but... none came.

"No, you're alright. I'm just weird."

"No, you're not."

The grip on his hand tightened slightly. A small squeeze, meant for comfort. Peri squeezed it back.

"Don't put yourself down," Asher continued. "If you're gonna say you're weird, at least be positive about it, because, everyone's a little weird. _Life _is weird, it's a miracle that we're even here at all. _That's _weird. Being hesitant about visiting someone's apartment on the first date isn't."

The lights flashed green. They crossed, ran the rest of the way when they began to flash red again. Asher muttered something about stupid lights, and Peri felt inclined to agree.

"My sister should be home, so I'm sorry if she teases you."

"I won't mind."

Another flash of lightning immediately followed by a crack of thunder, the rain somehow grew even heavier- there were no overhangs to hide under, he was being _soaked! _Asher began to run, dragging Peri with him. He couldn't see a thing, not with the droplets of rain attacking his glasses. More lightning, more thunder, and now wind, it was a true storm and they were caught in the middle of it-

Asher stopped so abruptly that Peri nearly rammed into him.

"Here, here, this is the building, come on!"

He shoved open the doors, they swung inward and they stumbled in, almost falling straight onto the now soaked flooring. The door shut behind them... and they were safe.

"My god," Asher wheezed. "If I had known about this stupid storm, I would've scheduled this for another day! I'm so sorry."

"No, no," Peri waved his hand dismissively, catching his own breath. "It's fine, it's fine. Just cold."

"Right. Right, yes, god. You're soaked, you need to get warm, or you'll get pneumonia."

"Tha's not actually how it works," he began to explain, but Asher was already at the elevator and pressing a button. He followed, stood next to him as they waited for the doors to open. "That's not actually how that works," he repeated.

"Hm?"

"You don't get pneumona from standing in the rain. You need to be exposed to the bacteria."

"Oh."

The elevator dinged, the doors opened. A brown-haired woman was already inside, she pushed passed them and in the process accidentally elbowed Peri's arm. If she noticed, she didn't care, and only continued to keep on walking.

Deciding to pay no mind, Peri followed Asher into the elevator. He watched the doors close as he hugged himself in an attempt to stay warm.

"Well, technically," Asher continued, "Standing out in the cold weakens your immune system, right?"

"Well, yes." The elevator began to move.

"So, then, _technically, _you can get pneumonia from standing out in the rain, because you're more susceptible to it."

"...I suppose so, but I don't believe I've encountered anyone who is sick, you'd think if they had pneumonia they would stay home to recover."

"They might have a cold, though. And that can turn _into _pneumonia."

"I suppose."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Peri took off his glasses so he could wipe away the rain that had accumulated on them. Finally, the elevator dinged again, and they stepped out into a corridor. Peri expected Asher to walk down the hall, but instead he made a beeline to the door immediately to their left. 

"I can hear the elevator all day and all night. It's ridiculous. I hope it doesn't annoy you too much."

He unlocked the door and swung it open.

"Heater's on. If you like you can wear something of mine while your shirt dries."

"That's- that's alright, but thank you."

The moment he stepped in, he was immediately met with pleasant, warm air. Like magic, it was like the cold unforgiving rain melted away; though he knew he was still soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead.

The apartment was surprisingly... homely. He'd been expecting the typical white cleanliness, that came in hotel rooms, but the floor was carpeted with a soft brown rug and, wall to wall, there were paintings and photographs all on display, and behind those was a sandy coloured wallpaper. By each visible window were at leat three different potted plants. Peri suddenly remembered his own plant, which he had been clutching tightly in his hand the whole time. By some miracle he had managed to keep it mostly dry.

He saw Asher take off his shoes and sit them upon a rack to dry, so he decided to do the same. Thankfully his socks were untouched by the downpour, which was still raging on outside. More lightning flashed outside the window. This time there was a small delay before the thunder, but the rain was still just as unforgiving.

"If you want to borrow a jacket, I really don't mind." Asher had begun to unbutton his vest. "I'm going to change into something that isn't, you know, soaked, so- I don't want you to sit around all wet."

Peri had a feeling that if he tried to refuse a second time, Asher would only insist, so instead, he bit back a sigh and nodded slightly, muttering a quick thank you.

Asher disappeared into a different room that Peri could only assume was his bedroom. Peri stood awkwardly in the centre of the room, which had a couch and a small tv propped up on a short bookcase. It was cute. Felt almost like a cottage, with the way things were decorated. 

"Shorter than I thought you'd be."

The sudden voice made him jump. There, standing under a doorway without a door, was the girl from Asher's photograph - his sister. She wore a nightgown and had her hair parted into three separate plaits. Held a steaming mug of something in her right hand.

"S-Sorry?" he stammered.

"You're short," she replied non-chalantly. "Usually my brother doesn't go for short guys."

Peri stared down at his feet. He knew he was below average height, but he never considered himself 'short' in that sense. Was he? He always figured that everyone else was just tall. 

"Miri," came Asher's stern voice, suddenly reappearing behind them. "He's not short."

"He is _so. _How tall is he? Five four?"

Peri all at once felt rather embarrassed. His face was hot, and he continued to glare down at the floor.

"_Miri,_" Asher sighed. "You're making him uncomfortable. Don't you have work to do, or something?"

She - Miri - scoffed. "Yeah. 'Or something' is a good way to describe it. My client dropped me out of bloody nowhere, so now I have to _wait_ for someone else. And since I have nothing better to do-"

"Just go read!"

She rolled her eyes, took a sip of whatever was in her mug. "Fine. You two have fun~"

"_Miri_!"

She disappeared into the next room, cackling loudly. Asher appeared in front of Peri, wearing a new set of more casual clothes. He shoved a jacket and a pair of tracksuit pants in Peri's direction, and he took them.

"I'm so sorry about that. She's not _usually like this," _he shot a glare at the doorway she'd disappeared through, "she just likes fucking with people."

Peri unfolded the clothes he'd been handed and held them out in front of him. They looked like they would fit well enough.

"Oh, you can change in my room. Or the bathroom, whichever you want."

"Um, re- uh, bathroom?"

"Just down the hall." He pointed at a short corridor to their left. "Last door on the right."

"Okay."

He placed down his plant, found the refresher and went in. It was small, white. Standard. Not much had been done to decorate it except for another plant sitting on the counter, but this time fake. Just for show.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

Awful.

He looked terrible. 

Why? Because his hair was plastered to his forehead? Because the lighting made him look as pale as a ghost? He didn't know. But in that moment, he hated how he looked.

_Should get changed. _He peeled off his shirt and replaced it with the thick jacket, and did the same with his jeans. _Where should I leave them? _He would ask.

The clothes were comfortable. They fit well, even if the sleeves on the jacket covered his hands- it was fine. The jacket did well to hide how skinny he was, at least.

He stepped back out into the main room just in time to see Asher bend down to pick up the plant Peri had left on the coffee table.

_Christopher plant._

He smiled bitterly to himself. What on earth did he name it that for? Ridiculous. Too late to change it, though, he supposed.

Asher looked up, and froze. His eyes raked Peri up and down, and even his dark skin wasn't enough to hide the blush.

"You look good," he croaked. Immediately turned away, moving to place the plant on the windowsill.

"Where do you want me to put these?" Peri held out his wet clothes. 

"Oh, um." Asher approached, pointedly looking at the floor, and took the clothes from Peri's grasp. "I'll hang them over the radiator. They'll get warm, that way."

The sky outside lit up with more lightning, a brilliant flash. Three second delay. Thunder echoed through the city.

"At least it's moving away," Asher muttered. "But I don't think it's going to let up anytime soon." He turned toward the couch, sighed as he sunk into it. "You wanna watch something while we wait?"

Not really. He didn't feel like watching anything, he just sort of wanted to... talk. Or even just sit in silence. 

"I'm a bit tired," he said quietly. "If you want to watch something, then- yes, but, I don't think I'd pay much attention."

"Yeah, I'm tired too."

Peri slowly sat down next to Asher. The couch was comfortable; even more so than Pascal's. If he wanted, he could fall asleep, then and there...

"Can I ask you something?" Asher spoke suddenly. 

"If you would like." Peri leaned back against the couch cushions. Had to physically resist closing his eyes.

"It's a bit personal... I think. So, you don't have to answer."

Oh.

"You said- before, you said something about... you know, you said it was a sensitive topic. And I was curious, about that. But you don't have to tell me."

Should he?

_Should I?_

He never talked about it.

Didn't want to. Djarin asking about it was too much on its own. And... speaking about her felt... wrong.

But, this time, he felt... okay. 

He wasn't over it. Fuck, no, he wasn't. He doubted he ever would be. But Asher was asking, and he felt okay. Maybe he should. Maybe it would help. Christopher said talking helped. Djarin had a therapist for the sole purpose of talking. He could, he could try.

*** * ***

"It's likely... not as complicated as you think," Peri began, slowly. He hugged himself, staring down at his feet. "But, um. I used- I used to be... I lived on the streets. For about two years." He paused for Asher to speak, but when he did not, Peri continued; "And I was... really, really vulnerable."

No. _No. No, no, no. Stop. _He drew a shaky inhale. _Power through it, please, you can. You can do this. _

"I was vulnerable. And there- there- was a woman. She was being all, all close, and shit. Touchy-feely, and, she wouldn't stop following me. I think I thought she might have been trying to- to sell drugs, or something. But-"

He stopped.

_Can't. I can't._

*** * ***

There was a hand on his shoulder. Gentle, kind.

"You don't have to continue," Asher spoke softly. Close, he'd moved closer. Beautiful voice, so close. "I'm- really sorry. For asking."

"It's... okay. You were curious."

"Well... thank you. For sharing that with me."

Without thinking, Peri leaned to the side. He rested heavily against Asher's shoulder. Allowed himself to close his eyes; just for a moment.

"If you're really tired, you can stay the night here." Asher's voice felt distant and close at the same time. Beautiful. Melodic, almost.

" 'M not sure if I got a choice," Peri mumbled. Tired, so tired. Should probably tell Pascal. "Kinda just, mmm."

"Aren't we all."

* * *

"Mornin'. "

Peri's eyes cracked open. Everything was blurry, he squinted. Could vaguely make out the shape of Asher standing over him, holding... some sort of tray.

He was... in a bed? Had he passed out the night before, and Asher moved him...?

He rubbed his eyes, and his sight cleared just enough to see that gentle smile, kind, genuine. True. Beautiful.

"I made breakfast. It's, like, nearly midday, so it's more like brunch, but hey. Sit up."

"Midday?" Peri pushed himself up into a sitting position. Glanced around the room, still needing to squint. He found his glasses on the bedside table and moved to put them on. Oh, how much simpler his life would be once he had a new prescription...

"Yeah. You passed right out around ten, and been sleeping ever since. You must've been super tired." He placed the tray on Peri's lap. "Sorry it's not anythin' fancy. Miri's at work and I can't cook."

Toast, with jam spread across each slice, and a glass of orange juice carefully balanced in a little cup holder. It all felt... eerily familiar. But so very different at the same time. This wasn't being given a bowl of cereal each morning to help him gain weight after living on the streets for two years. This was having breakfast in bed after the first date with someone he really, genuinely, truly adored.

And this... was just so much better. His heart was so full of- what was it, how could he possibly describe-? Just... couldn't remember the last time he felt so, so unequivocally happy.

There was a shift of weight in the bed. Asher hopped onto it, sat cross-legged on top of the duvet. Peri picked up one slice of toast and nibbled on it. Hadn't realised how hungry he was... right, he didn't have dinner last night... funny how quickly he'd gotten used to three meals a day. 

"Supposedly the storm didn't stop until, like, three in the bloody morning, so it's probably a good thing ya slept."

"You stayed up until three am-?"

"Nooo, no. I slept around midnight, I think. Miri told me. Toast good?"

"It's lovely. Thank you." He took a proper bite, this time. The only breakfast he really ever had was cereal, even at Pascal's house, so the toast was... a nice change. 

He also really liked jam.

"Where did you sleep?" he asked after he finished chewing. 

"On the couch."

"_What? _No, you should have let me have the couch! This is your home, I don't want to deprive you of your own bed."

Asher shrugged non-chalantly. "I've slept on it before. It's a damn comfy couch, so I don't mind, really."

"But-"

"No buts. Zero of them. D'you want me to drive you home after this?"

Peri swallowed another bite of toast. "Um, no, that's okay. I can probably call-" he paused. Glanced around the room, confused. "Where's my phone?"

"Oh, here." Asher leaned over and pulled out a drawer on the bedside table. He reached in and pulled out the fliphone. "This thing is ancient, man."

"Yeah, I know." Peri took it from him, muttering a quick thank you and flipping it open. Three new messages, all from Pascal...  
  


_You okay?  
  
_

_I called Christopher because I was getting worried. He said you're safe, so I believe him._

_Hope you had fun ;)_   
  


Peri bit back a sigh. "I can call my friend. He can drive me back."

"Sounds good to me. You wanna have a shower, or anything?"

"No, thank you... oh, your clothes-" He was still wearing the jacket and pants from the night before. 

"You can keep 'em. Those ones are too small for me now."

Peri opened his mouth to protest, but the look on Asher's face was enough to make him rethink. So kind. So... beautiful. So, instead, he simply said, "Thank you."

They sat in comfortable silence while he finished his breakfast. It didn't take him long, though he did try to pace himself, he was, admittedly, very hungry. When he finished, Asher took the tray from him and placed it on the bedside table. Said he'd deal with it later.

It wasn't until after Peri had called Pascal and asked to be picked up did he remember what he'd said the night before.

"I never bought you anything!" he exclaimed suddenly and loudly. "I said I would get you something, because you got me the plant, but I forgot!"

As he said this, Asher put the plant into Peri's hands, and smiled.

"I don't need anything, seriously. If it means that much to you, though, you can get something next time... assuming... there is a next time?"

_A second date._

"Of course!"

How could he possibly say no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	35. three years prior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But I can hope how this will end  
With every line a comedy  
That we could learn to love without demand  
But unreserved honesty

December 3rd, 2016

Cold.

That's all he could remember.

Biting, bitter. Cold. Rain. Echoing footsteps of each passerby. Unseeing. They are blessed with ignorance.

'Ignorance is bliss', is what people say. For the longest while, he had agreed. Keep your head down; you'll be fine. How could ignorance be bliss if ignorance lent to the suffering of those who had done no harm? Two years, he spent on those streets. Starving.

Cold.

So very cold, he shivered but it did nothing. Bliss was during summer. But he still starved. Could not work. Each day leading into the next in a blurring passage of time, two years; and all the while he couldn't help but ask himself why.

Why? Was this his punishment, was it his karma? Had the Gods turned on him, abandoned him? Even after praying in bed, every night, on that forsaken planet.

He didn't pray anymore. Somehow he felt it would not aid him.

"Hey."

There was a shift in weight on the mattress, but he did not look up from his knees tucked to his chest. There was a strange aroma, something he didn't quite recognise.

"It's Peri, right?"

Deep voice. He recalled it all too well. Though the words had become a blur, he recalled feeling the baritone, the bass in that voice. He remembered seeing the shoes, worn and torn with decades of wear. He recalled the hand, reaching down, pale and soaked with rain. And then the voice. A voice that radiated... warmth. Kindness.

He looked up. The tall man knelt at the foot of the mattress. He held a cup in his left hand, steam rose from it. Tucked under his right arm was a thick blue blanket.

"I brought you tea," the man spoke. Deep voice. "It's a bit hot, but, in a few minutes it should be cool enough to drink. Unless you want to, ah, scald your tongue."

When no response came from Peri, the man nodded and leaned forward.

"I'll just leave this here for you." He placed the mug on the floor where Peri could reach for it. "We don't have any heating. But I have a blanket for you."

He unrolled it and reached to throw it over Peri's knees. He tugged at it, pulling it close and burying the bottom half of his face. Warm. The man smiled softly, but it didn't feel genuine. It was sad. Everything felt sad. Suffocating. Cold.

"I didn't tell you my name. I'm sorry." The man shifted his position on the mattress so he was sitting cross-legged. "I'm Christopher. The ginger you met earlier is my wife, Ivana." Peri had already figured this by the rings on their fingers, but he did not voice it.

"You're not from around here, are you?"

_Putting it lightly, _Peri almost scoffed.

"I can feel it. You're like us."

_I can feel it too. _But he didn't understand it. Didn't understand anything.

"How long have you been here?"

_Two standard years, give or take._

"You don't have to talk, but it would really help us."

Peri shifted on the mattress. Pulled the blanket even closer, made sure his hands were covered. A breeze flew in through a window that had, at some point, been shattered. He shivered. Christopher looked over at it, then back at Peri.

"Sorry about that. Hard to find the money to fix it."

_Tell me about it. _He was suddenly aware of the crack in his glasses. Irritating. Thankfully it hadn't been any worse-

Blinked to make the memory go away.

"You should drink that before it gets cold."

Slowly, very slowly, Peri leaned over to look at the cup he'd been given. Tea, Christopher had said. He had only had tea once in his life, though he hardly remembered what it tasted like, or if he even liked it.

He cast one last glance over at Christopher, then carefully reached out his hand to grasp the handle. He brought it to his lips and took a small sip.

Warmth. Warmth he craved. Warm to hold, warm to drink. Warmth.

"Sorry if it isn't any good. I don't usually make tea."

_It's perfect._

He took another sip. Drink it slow. Savour it. When was the last time he had warmth? Too long.

"I need to get back to work," Christopher said softly. "I'm just around the corner, sitting at my desk. Call out if you need anything, or, come get me. Whichever is better."

He watched Christopher stand from the mattress, the weight shifting once again. He shoved his hands in his pockets, did a strange sort of half-bow, and turned to leave. Peri didn't take his eyes off of him until he was around the corner, out of sight.

Strange.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


December 7th, 2016

"D'you want me to cut it for you?"

Peri looked up from the mattress, his hand midway through ruffling his hair.

Been with these people for a few days, now.

Hadn't spoken a word. Hardly even moved. And they didn't try to force him. They were _patient. _He couldn't understand why. Why they kept him around, why they were patient. Christopher claimed to care, but the last person who said that-

"I have practise. I cut Ivana's hair. And my own."

Peri rested his hand back in his lap. Still did not speak. He did not _want_ to speak. So long as he was not forced, he would not. There was no point.

"I can wash it, too. It'll feel a lot better. But I understand if you don't want me to."

Peri knew how to cut his own hair. He'd been doing it since he first became a doctor, it was a requirement. But he knew, looking down at his bony frigid hands, that it would not do well to hold scissors.

He'd never had his hair cut by anyone else. He _certainly _hadn't had it washed, either, and that- for some reason, the thought almost scared him. He didn't want other people _touching _him, the very thought sent a chill down his spine, but- that look, in Christopher's eyes.

It had only been a few days. Every conversation was one-sided. So why did he already care about what this man thought?

He looked up, and he nodded. Slowly, hesitantly. Christopher nodded in return and beckoned for Peri to stand. Didn't offer a hand, like last time, and he was grateful for this.

He got to his legs. They shook for a moment. Wobbly, like jelly, he stumbled forward. Barely moved, sitting on that mattress, he was just so tired and so- he couldn't. But he stood now, perhaps out of a sense of obligation. Like if he didn't, he would hurt Christopher's feelings. Which was ridiculous, but the notion presented itself regardless and Peri couldn't shake it away, so- he stood, and walked. For the first time since his arrival, he got out of the bed for a reason other than needing the refresher.

Bathroom?

Whatever.

He followed Christopher into the next room. A hallway, he'd seen this before, but not the rest of the house. He was almost excited, in some strange way. Assuming nothing _horrible happened... _this would be where he was living. For a little while, at least.

They turned a corner. This, Peri had not seen. It was a long corridor, longer than he would have expected, and wider too. At one end, the left side, he saw the exit. On the right was a different door leading to what he assumed would be the rest of the house. They went through to that door.

This room felt strange. It was white, like a hospital room, in a way. It certainly felt like one, and- yes, they even had a bed that resembled what you would find in such a place. Different equipment for varying tasks lined up on a counter, though not all of them could be for medical purposes. Peering closer, Peri recognised a small, black band. He'd worn it before, they had slapped it on his wrist. From what he could recall... it recorded his vitals. Heartbeat, everything.

"Came through with us," Christopher explained, at the sight of Peri's staring. "When we got sent here. We were lucky."

They didn't linger very long in that room and turned into another. This one had a metal sink, with a cheap-looking spinning chair sitting in front of it. Christopher turned it toward Peri and waved his hand at it as though asking him to sit. So he did. Sank into it. Wasn't necessarily comfortable, but... it felt better than sitting on that mattress all day.

"What's your usual hair length?"

Peri watched as he shuffled through stuff in a box. After a moment he pulled out a pair of thin scissors, which he wiped with a clean cloth.

"Oh." He turned to Peri with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. You don't have to speak. Can you show me?"

Slowly, Peri raised his hand and found, where he thought, his hairline might be. It was hard to tell without a mirror. Looked up at Christopher, hoped he would understand. _Short, _he wanted to say. _I like it very short._

Through some sort of witchcraft, or, whatever, he seemed to understand and replicated the gesture on his own head. Seemed to think for a moment. Then pulled his hand back, effectively dragging his hair off of his face and exposing his forehead. Peri nodded. _Yes. Short._

Christopher approached. Slowly, deliberately, so Peri could see every move. He reached for the back of the chair and spun it around slowly, so Peri was facing the wall and the sink.

"I need to be able to touch you," Christopher spoke softly. Felt so close, a pleasant chill ran down Peri's spine... "Will you let me?"

Even without seeing it, he could feel the man's hands hovering over him, waiting for permission. Peri hesitated. He almost considered jumping up from the chair and changing his mind completely, instead resigning himself to sitting back on that mattress, and he _knew _that Christopher would let him, but-

Instead, he nodded. _Yes, _he said without speaking. _I will let you._

For a moment, there was nothing. It was so silent that Peri wondered for a moment if Christopher had left. But then... a gentle touch, on his shoulder. A gentle hand. Not pressing down, but enough to hold him steady. It was... it was nice. He almost wanted to lean into it, it was so painfully delicate. Being treated like a porcelain doll...

He didn't much mind, really.

The hand moved from his shoulder. Instead Peri felt it in his hair. Lingered there, just for a moment, then began to combe through it. Pulling, with as much delicacy as humanly possible, knots and mats out of his hair.

Peri's eyes slid closed. A wave of exhaustion washed over him. He knew, if he truly wanted, he could fall asleep then and there. But he did _not _want to. He would not allow it.

A faint memory invaded his mind; fading, he struggled to bring it forth. But it was his mother. He was in bed, there had been a storm. He was frightened. A young child, afraid of the thunder, as though the big loud noise could do anything to harm him; it could not. There were far worse things out there than _thunder. _She combed her hands through his hair, gently humming, willing him to go to sleep. His anxieties, his fears, melting away, he knew he would be safe with his mother. Naive child.

But this was different. The sensation was familiar, but the nature was not, their surroundings, the atmosphere. It all felt rather strange, almost too strange, and yet- he welcomed it. Peri welcomed it dearly, for this, he felt, was what he truly needed.

Soon all the knots were gone. There had been no pain. How, Peri did not know, but he didn't dare to question. Didn't care enough. As soon as Christopher's hands left his scalp his eyes snapped open again, like emerging from a trance he glanced around the room as though he expected to be somewhere else entirely. But it was that same small corner of the house, with the metal sink and unpainted brick walls.

The chair turned around, all too suddenly. He saw another apologetic smile playing on Christopher's lips.

"Can you lean back? The chair bends far, I want to wash your hair."

He did. Without question, Peri leaned back. The chair barely protested at all, willingly travelled with him. Specifically built for this purpose, he imagined.

"You should take off your glasses. And close your eyes."

He did as he was told. It felt unnatural, but... right. Held out his cracked glasses and felt them being taken from his hand, skin brushing skin... like he'd been shocked, he jerked his hand away, but Christopher didn't seem to notice- or, if he did, he didn't care enough to show a reaction.

"Okay," he spoke. "I'm gonna rinse your hair. Wave your hand at me if the water's too hot."

It wasn't. Not even at all, the water was perfect. _Warmth. _He was obsessed with the warmth these past few days had given him, and this was- it was all he could ask for, the warmth.

His head felt heavy, with the water rushing through his hair. The edge of the chair dug into his neck, but it was... much like before, he felt so extremely relaxed that he couldn't help but wish he could fall asleep, feeling such a way that it was like a trance, as though he had been hypnotised, though not on a stage in front of thousands; it was private, and... special.

Why?

The water stopped running. Tap squeaked and moaned as it was turned off. Delved into silence. Peri could almost feel Christopher moving around him, his presence sticking out like red in a picture of white and black. Peri could _feel _him, _properly _feel him, but not even once did they meet.

"This is going to be cold."

Warm, was Christopher's voice. No other words could describe it. Perhaps this was why Peri was so drawn to it, because warmth was what he craved, for so very long. Warmth and kindness that he could only pray to receive, and- well, he'd stopped praying long ago.

The shampoo was cold. But he didn't mind, because Christopher was combing his hands through his hair again, massaging the soap in, taking away the tension with each methodical movement.

The warm water started up again, and all the soap was rinsed out, slowly, and Christopher continued to run his hands through Peri's hair. No talking, nothing, but still it felt like magnitudes passed between them, unspoken conversation, and all Christopher was doing was washing Peri's _goddamn hair._

Something like annoyance pushed its way through his body, and he physically frowned. He didn't realise he'd actually made a proper sound until the tap water turned off and Christopher's hands were no longer in his hair.

He forced his eyes open. Christopher peered down at him, a worried expression plastered on his face.

"You want me to stop? If you're-"

"No."

If there was silence before, the silence that followed now was deafening. He hadn't intended to speak, and by the gods, his throat screamed at him for trying, but it had just _happened, _and- he just didn't want it to end. Not _now, _not so soon.

His own voice surprised him. The sound of it, how coarse it was. It almost mocked him, taunted him. _Look. This is what your life has become, doctor._

"Okay," Christopher spoke, quietly, hesitantly. He hadn't been expecting it either. "Okay," he repeated, louder. Cleared his throat. "Alright. I'll just finish rinsing this out, then I'll see what I can do about cutting it."

Peri closed his eyes again. Immediately, without even a second of hesitation. How strange. So quick to trust this man. He did not feel the same way about Ivana. She was _nice, _and he liked her, but... but there was something different, about Christopher. He just couldn't put a finger on it, even though he felt like he should be able to, it was _familiar-_

The water started up again, the thoughts faded away. Gone, in a moment, like they hadn't mattered at all. It wasn't long though before the water stopped again, and he forced his eyes to open once again.

"You can sit up now."

Peri's neck ached as he rose from his position. Head felt heavy, the water in his hair weighing it down. His eyes drooped and he struggled to keep them open, but he had to, needed to...

The chair was spun around again, and once more he faced the brick wall. Cracked and dull, nothing interesting to stare at except the mortar lain between each red brick.

"Okay. You wanted it short, right?"

Christopher's arm reached over Peri's shoulder to place something down in front of them - a mirror, about the same width and height as the sink but turned on its side. Peri stared into it, for a moment, unblinking.

Pale. So very pale, and so very thin. He raised a hand to his face, rested his palm against his cheekbone. Bony. Cold to the touch. His eyes were sullen, dull and grey.

He _hated _it.

At least his beard looked... fine enough. Truthfully it never changed, really, ever. So it wasn't an issue but, everything else- he wished there had been a mirror in the refresher, so he could have seen sooner. When was the last time he saw his own face in a mirror? Didn't want to think about it.

Christopher placed his hand under Peri's fringe. Dragged the hair back over his scalp, just like he'd done earlier. Exposed Peri's forehead... just like it used to be.

Come to think of it, he wasn't sure if he liked it anymore. But it was _damn _irritating, in his eyes all the _fucking _time, so, so- he didn't say anything about it. Of course.

"Close your eyes."

He was grateful to. His own reflection mocked him.

Peri sat there for a while. Christopher worked in silence, and slowly Peri felt the weight disappear; finally. Finally. It was when Christopher began to work on the fringe did he begin to speak.

"You remind me of my brother," he said. It sounded absent-minded like he wasn't truly aware he was saying it, distant. "He used to be like you. Didn't like to talk. He's autistic. Or- well, I am too, so-"

Peri didn't know what autistic meant. But he didn't want to interrupt, so Christopher continued to talk.

"My sister, too. I think we all are. But it was always more noticeable in James. But then, I think, he decided he wanted to start talking. He always told me it was like something in him 'clicked'. Now he doesn't shut up." He chuckled. "He was smart. Real smart, was gonna work for NASA, he said. So smart."

The scissors were a pleasantly cool sensation against Peri's forehead. Even with metal, the gentle touches, brief moments of contact, they sent a barrage of chills down his spine.

"So outgoing, when it came down to it. Not like me. I told most people to bugger right off." Another quiet laugh, like he'd just uttered some inside joke. " 'Bugger right off'. That's so British."

Filling the silence. That was all he was doing. Peri wasn't speaking, so Christopher did twice as much. Still, though, the prospect that he felt comfortable sharing all of this, with someone he'd barely known for four days? It was... flattering.

"I should talk more British. Yeah. Maybe start having English breakfasts. Scones and tea. With jam. Just become the most bloody stereotypical version of myself I possibly can. That'd be fun."

British. Britain. England. Peri vaguely knew of it. Hadn't Killian been British? He'd said so, hadn't he? It was all such a blur, but- yes, it was the same accent. Funny.

Not that it mattered.

Killian was either dead or in a gang, and Peri didn't care to find out which.

"Maybe I should start callin' this country the Colonies. Piss off some Americans. Sod 'em, they deserve it. Sorry."

There was the sound of clattering metal, then a soft sigh. "Okay. I'm done."

Peri cracked his eyes open. Looked down and saw Christopher handing over his glasses. He took them with a silent nod, put them on, then turned to look at himself in the mirror.

Just like how it used to be.

Bittersweet. Like looking into the past, nostalgic in the worst way possible. _But... _it felt good. To have it off his face, off his neck. He ran a hand through it. Still wet, but would dry soon enough.

"I hope it's okay. Not used to going so short."

Peri nodded. Hoped it would be enough to express what he actually wanted to say. But his nod went unnoticed- Christopher turned away from him just as he did so, to dry his hands on a towel.

Peri stood from the chair. Slowly. Used the counter as a grip, his legs shook under him. Something itched at the back of his throat, on the tip of his tongue. Christopher reached for the door handle, and Peri cleared his throat.

Paused. They both hesitated, and there was more silence. Peri opened his mouth.

"Thank- thank you."

Quiet, hoarse, and the most insincere sounding shit he'd ever fucking said, but- still, Christopher smiled. And this one was real.

"Thank you," he echoed. "For trusting me with this. I know this is difficult." There was more he wanted to say. Peri could feel it, in his chest, more words were being left unsaid. But he didn't push for it.

Peri followed him back through the house. Scrambled back onto the mattress the second he laid his eyes on it. Ivana was in the room now, sitting at a small table, and she shot him a smile... which he returned, as best he could. Forced, but... made her happy, at least.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
December 14th, 2016

He wasn't sure what to make of them.

Christopher and Ivana.

Such a lovely couple, so kind to each other. So understanding. Disagreements never turned into petty arguments. Level-headed. Calm.

In the meantime, Peri was... not. Any of that.

He'd fall in and out of memories. They _plagued _him, each waking hour, each quiet moment, he just wanted some fucking peace but every time he _tried, that woman-_

...she did not have the right to take away what was his. Yet, she did it anyway.

The strangest thing? He'd experienced worse. Far worse. He had witnessed murder before his very eyes. Men and woman being slaughtered. His very life, threatened, those frightful moments before it all changed. A blaster in his face, yelling, flashes of red, dead troopers at his feet.

Those memories were not the ones that woke him in the dead of night screaming. She was in his brain, a tumour ready to metastasise. Phantom sensations, feelings that were not there moments prior then disappearing in the blink of an eye when he leapt from where he sat with a yell of fear.

She took it away from him. His mind, his rights. Sleep, which had once been an escape, temporary bliss; she took that away, too. Now he was left with nothing.

Christopher did not know. Peri did not tell him. He did not tell anyone. What was the point? Talking about it would not change what she did. She was gone, now. She left, and he never saw her again, and good bloody fucking riddance.

Except that she was not gone. She _refused _to leave. Cancerous. Slowly, so slowly, she drained away his _life, _his feelings. She left him there in a cold alleyway and that cold had not left him since.

"Hey."

Ivana checked up on him often. Christopher was busy a lot of the time, on jobs or just searching for them. So in his place, Ivana would sit down and she would talk.

She was nice. Pleasant company, a pleasant face, a pleasant voice.

"We're gonna be watching a movie later. You wanna join us?"

She had a very slight accent that Peri could not put a name to. There was the British accent, yes, but there was something else, lying underneath. Certain syllables sounded different, certain words were drawn out where they did not need to be.

"If not, that's totally fine. I just thought I'd offer."

A movie. He did know that word. His dimension must have had them too - dimension was the word, wasn't it? - but he couldn't recall ever having the opportunity to watch one. So busy. Doctor-ing.

He nodded. Partly out of curiosity. Mostly because he would rather like to spend more time with Christopher.

She smiled, and it was a kind and true smile. She was always happier. Christopher acted like everything was fine but Peri knew he wasn't. Ivana was sad, yes, but she didn't hide it. Her emotions were not a secret, so when the time came to be happy it _was _genuine because nothing had been pent up.

Time passed. Peri kept his eyes on the clock at all times, counting the hours until Christopher arrived home. The schedule was very simple. If he had a job, which he often did, he would leave at seven in the morning and come back at eight. Peri didn't know what he was doing to take so long, but he'd long since decided that perhaps he just had multiple things to do in one day. Regardless of what it was - legal or not - Peri was in no position to pass judgement.

He'd probably done worse, after all.

Peri was half asleep when he heard the door open. It didn't register properly until five minutes later when Ivana tapped him on the shoulder and gestured for him to follow. He did. Got to his feet, still shaky, and weak, but... capable.

He only needed to turn the corner. Christopher sat on the floor, setting up cushions he'd taken from the mattresses and holding a blanket under his arm. His laptop - as Peri had come to understand it was called - sat beside him, open on some... web-page, was it?

Ivana sat on one of the pillows. Gestured for Peri to do the same, so he did. He sat on her right. Felt _small, _next to her. He felt small next to both of them, and not just because of his weight. They were tall and lean, and they towered over anyone else he'd ever encountered.

Christopher sat... next to him. It wasn't until he pressed play on the film in front of him that Peri realised he was sitting in _between _the two. Sandwiched between them, they didn't mention it and didn't seem to mind but- why?

Still, it was... warm. The blanket draped over all three of them. He didn't pay any attention at all to the film. Their shoulders were pressed against him, it was almost protective, and even with all the lights off, and that stupid breeze coming in through that window, he was- warm. And safe, he felt safe and _loved_. Was that the correct word?

It felt right.

His eyes were droopy. Head felt heavy, but not with burden. No headache.

He leaned to one side. The side of his face rested on someone's shoulder. They didn't move, there was no objection, he was not shoved away. There was, though, an amused huff. And that was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep.  
  
  


* * *

December 25th, 2016  
Such pretty songs. Echoing throughout the halls, the rooms, Christopher played on his instrument.

A piano, he called it. A cheap version, usually people called it a keyboard, but, he liked to call it a piano.

So beautiful. Beautiful songs. Peri watched his hands fly across the keys, and with each gentle tap came music. Sometimes happy. Usually sad.

Christopher would sometimes rise early in the morning. He'd move to the other end of the house, sit at his piano. For a moment his hands would simply rest on the keys. He'd take a deep breath, slowly exhale. Then he would close his eyes and begin to play.

On this morning, the song was... scattered with hope, nostalgic, but... melancholy, and angry. Began so softly but crescendoed into something maddening. Peri asked what the song was called.

"It's from a movie," Christopher had said, "called Anastasia. It was my brother's favourite, but- I don't remember the name of the song." He sat there for a moment. "I used to know. I forgot. A while ago. But it's pretty."

-

January 15th, 2017

A month.

A month into it all, and Peri finally began to speak. Properly, at least. He started small, with yesses and nos, which soon turned to full sentences. He could see, in their eyes, a sense of pride. Pride for him. So he talked more. It made them happy, so why shouldn't he?

He was eating more.

Gods, yes, he was. He was actually eating, on a decently regular basis. After two years of barely scrounging together enough money for one meal a _week _he was finally able to eat _properly. _Yes he still got hungry and yes they all had to ration but, it was infinitely better than before, and- the first time he realised he'd actually gained weight he physically cried. Finally. Finally.

His hair grew slow. So he didn't need to get it cut again. He was almost sad about it, in some... strange way.

Didn't know why. Didn't know how Christopher had already become such a presence in his mind. Peri didn't have anything else to do so- so most of his time was spent, just... thinking. About Christopher. And it drove him fucking crazy.

Why? _Why? _What was special about him? He was kind, yes. Patient, understanding, yes. But Ivana was all of these things, too, so- so-

So...

...so...

...so.

Of course.

* * *

  
  
  


February 4th, 2017

The nightmares didn't go away. Of course they wouldn't, he wouldn't expect them to, why should they? So- so it wasn't a surprise when he woke up in the dead of night. It was nothing out of the ordinary, it happened every night as far as he could count, but something felt... different.

He didn't register it at first. Exhausted out of his mind he just wanted to go back to sleep, but as he buried his face into the pillow he heard something. Soft, but not so distant. Just around the corner, he could hear it.

Crying.

He looked over at the other mattress. Ivana was there, sleeping, but Christopher was not. Some horrible feeling settled in Peri's chest. Concern. Dread. Fear. Something had to have happened. Christopher had been so composed, for so long, two months, now, nothing, so then, why? Why was he crying? Why was he so upset? Or did this happen often, in moments of peace and quiet?

Peri cried. He cried a lot, he didn't try to hide it and both of them encouraged him not to so _why _did Christopher feel that need?

He slid slowly off the mattress, careful not to make a sound. He tip-toed to the other end of the room. Prepared himself for what he might see, ready to take action if he needed to.

Peered, slowly, around the corner.

Christopher was there. In his chair, hunched over his desk. His hands buried in his hair. Tears fell. They hit the desk, one after another, and no move was made to wipe them away. He gasped for air between quiet sobs which would make his entire body shiver and shake like he was doused in cold water. Dread, seeping dread, radiating it. Each soft whimper sent waves of grief washing over Peri's body, consuming him. Yet he could not turn away. He could not approach, either, or even say anything, it was like he was stuck. Completely frozen, he couldn't move.

He spent five minutes like that. Staring, unable to do anything else. And Christopher cried, quietly, the entire time.

Peri went back to bed. But he didn't sleep for the rest of the night.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


April 5th, 2017

"Can you use it on me?"

"What?"

Peri stared down at the small device in Christopher's palm. Far too small, for how powerful it truly was. The fate of someone's mind, their very being. They had that power, they could wield it if they wanted to. Not even Peri's universe had anything like that.

"When I was- when I was on the streets, still. A, a few months before you found me, I was- something happened, to me. And I want to forget it."

Christopher said that it could erase memories. That it was used, primarily, on trauma victims. He explained that he had never used it before, and it wasn't common practise in his own world because of the questionable morality of it. Psychologists disapproved of it, but sometimes there was one case that... well, they had to.

"I... can't, doctor."

Ah, yes. That endearing little nickname. Was it really a nickname? It wasn't supposed to be, but that was what it felt like. After finding out what Peri used to do, what he used to be, the name just, sort of, stuck.

"Why not?"

"Just because I have it doesn't mean I support it."

Peri stared back down at it. So small. And it was all he needed. All he needed to get- to get it all, out of his head, he just- that woman, in his head, all the time, she ruined him.

She _ruined _him.

Peri sat down at the table. Wasn't going to protest. He knew it wouldn't serve him any favours. Getting angry never did.

Christopher sat down opposite him, though. Still held the device firmly in his hand.

"What happened?" he asked.

Right. Of course. Peri had never talked about it.

"Stuff."

"If it troubles you this much, I- I don't think it can be boiled down to just 'stuff'. Please talk to me. Is this the reason you've been having nightmares?"

No matter how hard he tried, Peri could never keep secrets from Christopher.

He still refused to wipe the memory, even after the tearful explanation.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


May 18th, 2017

"Are you okay?"

Five months. Nearly half a year, now, that he'd spent with Christopher and Ivana.

Peri closed his book. "Why do you ask?"

Christopher sat opposite him on the mattress. He had this strange look about him, one that Peri hadn't really seen before. Concern, yes, but something else too.

"It's just- you've been really- clingy. Lately."

That...

Was not what he had been expecting.

If he didn't know better he'd have said his heart stopped. No, it was beating fast, faster than it should, faster than it had any right going. Stared back down at his book, closed in his lap. Willed Christopher to leave, but at the same time, wished so dearly for him to stay.

Couldn't help it. Every glance sent him into a goddamn frenzy. Out of control; he _was _clingy, he knew this, but he couldn't fucking stop.

Christopher was married. This, _apparently, _was not enough for Peri's stupid fucking brain. Why? Why him? Of all people, why him? Why did it have to be _his _eyes that Peri adored so much? Why did it have to be _his _hand that he ached to hold? Sometimes, Peri would cry, _cry _into his pillow. He was brought to tears about it but he just- couldn't. Couldn't stop it. So painful, such a piercing ache.

But he wasn't a home-wrecker. And he wasn't about to become one.

"I'm fine."

"You and I both know that isn't the truth."

How long? How long would Peri need to suffer for before he found it within himself to move on? It would end eventually. It always did, pining never lasted so he just needed to wait but for how long?

"I'm fine."

"Please don't lie to me, doctor."

It wasn't fair.

Nothing about it was fair.

What was he supposed to say? "I love you"? No. _No. _But- what could he do? Couldn't continue to lie, not anymore, not with those eyes staring him down. Those deep blue eyes, like the oceans on Naboo.

He didn't realise he was crying until he was engulfed in a hug. After that, the prospect of not saying anything at all became unbearable. Everything rolled off his tongue, in the form of a blubbering mess of words. Incomprehensible sentences that all came down to one thing:

"I really, really fucking like you."

Peri decided to ignore the expressions of pity from every day onward.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


January 12th, 2018

After the first year, Christopher got sick.

At first they all thought he was just tired. Falling asleep at his desk hadn't necessarily been uncommon. But slowly it changed from once or twice a week to daily. It was then that they all decided that something was wrong.

Maybe it was a virus, they thought.

It wasn't, and Peri learned this after Christopher broke down yelling and crying in the dead of night.

Cancer, he'd said. Leukemia, he'd said. Had it before, recovered, but there was always a chance it would come back. And it did.

He explained that without proper treatment, he would be dead in under a decade.

That year was slow.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


February 5th, 2018

Everything about Christopher was different. His mannerisms. The way he talked, walked. It all changed after Peri got shot.

They were all happy, together. Despite it all, despite the shit thrown their way, they spent their time with each other as any other friends would. They watched movies, television shows, laughed and made fun of politics. Discussed interests and family, their life before it all went wrong. Past relationships, even.

That stopped happening.

The mood became sombre.

No one had been expecting it. They were out in the open, in a crowd of people. But the ones tailing them had become desperate. They aimed a gun at Christopher. Peri jumped in front of it.

He couldn't remember it. Not really. A blur of movement. A sudden jolt of pain, then nothing. Less than nothing, eternal darkness. It was a miracle that he woke up at all.

Christopher was not the same. On constant high alert. He decided to set up cameras around the city. Small little things, cheap. Hid them in places no one would find them and, if anyone did, he just replaced it.

He taught Peri how to wield a gun. Just in case, just for emergencies. He was a rather good shot, actually, and it made him prouder than it probably should have, but- oh well.

But other than that. Other than the paranoia. He was... he was angrier. But at the same time, it was like all the emotion had been drained from him. When he laughed or smiled it was forced. He watched the movies, the television shows, but he didn't make comments like he used to, ones that would send them all into fits of laughter.

He didn't even cry anymore.

It was just something they would need to deal with.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


November 22nd, 2019

Nearly three years.

It...

It came as a shock.

Initially it was something in the corner of his eye. No one paid any mind. Didn't need to, he was focused on _other _things, they were important. But... well.

He wished he'd seen it sooner.

That stupid billboard.

Out of pure happenstance, coincidence, he decided to look up. Bright and orange it shone, advertising something in block lettering. Peri put on his glasses so he could read it.

Fainted.

Somehow, fainted. Woke up back at the house, a wet cloth placed delicately over his forehead. Ivana told him it'd only been half an hour. Forty minutes, at most. She assumed he was just tired. But he shook his head.

"No. No. Didn't you see it?"

"See what?"

"That billboard. Didn't you? Didn't you see it?"

She didn't know what he was talking about. He told her to look it up. So she did, but she still didn't understand, and- at that point he was getting frustrated, so frustrated, why didn't she understand? He had told them about his universe. What it was like. What happened to him there.

"That was him," he sniffled. "That was him. On that billboard, the Mandalorian. It was him."

When... Christopher got home, notably sooner than he usually did, they decided to watch the show.

Nothing could have prepared him for it. Even the build-up, knowing what he was about to see. Knowing what was going to happen. He was quiet when it happened. He thought- he thought maybe he'd break into tears. Scream, or faint again. He didn't. He was quiet. He paused it, though, reached for the remote in the middle of the third episode. Just before it all went wrong.

"There," he said. Before he was pulled from that Universe and fell into this one. From a doctor to a homeless bastard wandering the streets.

The actor, they found, was Omid Abtahi. None of them knew about him. They decided to be more careful from then on. And Peri did his best to hide his anger.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


December 27th, 2019

Him?

Why him?

It was almost a relief, to hear about the Mandalorian. Ivana had burst in through the door and announced it loudly to the room. She was excited, Peri could hear it in her voice.

Din Djarin had come through.

Why him?

Well, why anyone?  
  
  


* * *

  
  
3rd February, 2020

He'd left the house.

Left Christopher in a wailing mess, but he was too angry to care. Just threw his hood over his face and left. Didn't know how long he walked for. Ignored, as best he could, Christopher's onslaught of messages. Begging him to come back.

Things were complicated. He knew it was more than one dimension deep. Christopher was a complicated man. Unfortunately, it had taken the shooting of an innocent man for Peri to see it.

Maybe he was a bad person. Or maybe he was telling the truth, maybe it had been an accident. Both sides of the argument tugged at each other in Peri's mind, a war.

He loved Christopher. Even after it all, he couldn't help it.

By the time he came back it was dark. Djarin had taken Pascal back. By force, as he understood it.

Christopher said he was going for a walk.

He didn't say anything about it. He didn't need to. Peri guessed what he'd almost done the second he came back through the front door.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
18th February, 2020

They'd gotten themselves hospitalised.

About damn time, with how fucking reckless they were being. But... he didn't know how long they'd be there for. And going somewhere else was better than moping around the house at five in the morning. So... left to do the only thing he truly knew _how _to do.

Apologise.

Maybe it would do some good.

Still, he couldn't help but feel so, very scared, as he stood before that man's door. He'd probably be turned away. Maybe even yelled at.

It was worth a shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ once upon a december cover by kylelandry ](https://youtu.be/HpXHdegMTtw)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	36. Just human decency.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will look for you as the sun rises higher  
When the dry bones dance with the timbrel and lyre  
There's a wind alive in the valley  
It will fill your lungs, if you'll have it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not feelin' how this one was written, but i hope y'all enjoy nonetheless!

22nd March 2020

_"I'm getting the impression that she's very special to you."_

"She is."

_"Would you like to tell me more about that? Or is that something you would prefer to keep private?"_

Din sat, cross-legged, on his bed. Pedro's laptop rested in front of him, the screen tilted back. Robert was sitting in an office. Worked from home, he said, but he liked the workplace environment.

"She's..." he paused. Thinking. Omera was very special. Words could not describe... how she made him feel, every time he visited that hospital... He would go, every morning. Pedro had new work, new roles, so he would drive Din to the hospital on the way, and leave him there until late afternoon. "Amazing." And it never stopped being wonderful. Talking to Omera, and, Winta, too! He adored them. "I think I love her."

_"You think?"_

Robert had this curious look on his face. He truly listened, truly cared. It was only their second session, but Din already felt as though he could share _everything. _That feeling of comfort that this man radiated. Wise, kind. He understood. And he wanted to help.

"I don't know. She makes me happy."

So happy. When was the last time he felt like that? On Sorgan, had to be. But since _then?_

Never.

_"I'm very glad to hear that. This is just an observation, but with the return of your friend, I can see you're a lot more comfortable today. This doesn't mean that everything will be solved with a," _he snapped his fingers,_ "but, this is still very good progress and you should be proud of that, I think."_

There was a brief sound of shuffling papers that Din couldn't see before he continued:

_"If you don't mind my asking, and of course you don't have to give an answer, did you have any more nightmares since our last session?"_

Every night. He woke up, in a pool of his own cold sweat, his throat aching as the remnants of a scream echoed through the halls. Breathing heavy and hard, he'd lay awake until his eyes got used to the consuming darkness of his bedroom. And then he'd try again. Go back to sleep. The cycle repeated.

"Yeah."

_"And you don't remember these dreams?"_

Forgotten, as quick as they'd invaded his mind they evaporated into nothing. He was almost grateful.

Didn't want to know.

He just hoped he wasn't keeping Pedro awake at night.

"Yeah."

_"I see. And how much sleep do you think you got over this past week?"_

"I don't know. Not much."

_"Does this affect your day-to-day life much at all? I know you said you don't have a job, but, how about hobbies?"_

Honestly, he didn't have any real hobbies either. Did reading Wikipedia articles count as a hobby? Probably not.

There was... his writing. But...

"I don't think so."

_"You told me last time that you like to write."_

"Yeah."

Yeah.

The book he'd been writing in, it sat open on his bed, barely a foot away. An unfinished piece glaring at him, mocking him.

"Have a bit of a creative block though."

_"Why do you think that is?"_

Why did anyone have a block? He just... couldn't think. Of anything. The words were on the tip of his tongue and they refused to leave it. He knew what he wanted to say, but not how to say it. Sitting there for a week now, half done and no direction. Ever since Omera arrived... the words escaped him. He was even _talking _less, and he didn't talk much to begin with.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. Because he didn't. He wanted to write. It was the only thing he'd found real enjoyment in, even though he'd barely just started. But now he just couldn't _think,_ and it was frustrating him. "I could start a new piece. But I don't want to just leave it."

_"Leave it unfinished, you mean?"_

"Yes."

_"Why not?"_

Din whipped his gaze around back to the screen. Why couldn't he?

"I don't... know."

His door creaked open. The cat sauntered through, making no noise and moving to climb up onto Din's bed. He reached his hand out to her and she rubbed her face against it. So cute. Cute cat.

Her wounds had been healing so well. Her bruises were nearly gone, and now all that remained of the gash on her leg was scab. She never complained when he needed to apply the anti-septic, even though it bothered her... couldn't have asked for a better cat.

Pedro took the allergy medication, daily. It seemed to work fine. Later in the day he might get itchy eyes but by that point the cat was usually asleep, anyway.

On top of it all, she got along fine with Edgar. Pedro was worried they'd fight, but they tolerated one another and really, that was all they could ask for.

"I guess it's how I was raised. I was... separated, from my family. The people who took care of me didn't leave things _unfinished. _They did whatever they needed to to achieve what was right, even if it meant dying."

He scratched behind the cat's ear. She purred softly, pushed up against his leg.

"I never really questioned it. Didn't see a need to. Their... their Way of life was mine. It was everyone's."

His helmet still sat in the cupboard. The doors were closed, but... it still felt like it mocked him, day after day. That dark visor glaring at him through the splintered wood.

"The Way was everything. My entire existence. I never knew anything else, anything better. Until I met my son, but... but, he's gone, now. So."

The cat looked up at him. Eyes still half-closed, she moved from her spot against his leg and instead climbed over it. She curled up into a ball between his legs, all of her weight pressed against his feet. They'd probably go numb if he let her sit there. Didn't care, though.

"It's... it's strange. I'm used to it, now? My son not being here. But I don't want to be used to it. I want to- I want to scream. I want to cry about him, I want to."

He frowned. Absentmindedly ran his hand over the cat's spine. Her purring grew louder.

"Or maybe I feel like I need to. Maybe... maybe I feel that way with a lot of things. I don't know. I mean- he was- _is _my son. And I fucking miss him. And I want him back. But... I don't know."

Robert looked at him thoughtfully. Tilted his head to one side.

"I... think about, the people that raised me. A lot. I don't know where they are now, something happened. But now that I'm with Pedro... he's my family. I mean, they were my family too. And once I stopped following their Way of life it was difficult. It was so difficult, and I cried. About it. A lot."

He saw Robert shuffle some papers offscreen. He bore a strange expression, he was frowning, but... something else.

"But thinking about it now."

He looked down at the cat. She was fully asleep, now. Breathing deeply.

"I... don't want it."

The realisation hit like a brick.

"I'm upset about it because I think I need to be, because I have spent decades of my life following their Way. Abiding by their rules, their customs. But I don't _want _that." He looked back up at the screen. Caught Robert's eye. "I've never wanted it. I just thought I did."

Silence. Robert smiled at him.

"Sorry. Sorry, were you saying something?"

At this, Robert shook his head, still holding that grin. He took off his glasses, wiped them on the hem of his shirt, then placed them back over his eyes.

_"I haven't said a word for half an hour."_

Din froze. Robert wrote something in his notebook. Even the cat fell silent, like she could feel the tone shift in her sleep.

Felt like he'd been doused in cold water. Thrown over him from above.

"How-?"

_"Sometimes, all one needs is a listening ear. Once they have that they can figure things out on their own."_

"You're a genius."

_"I did nothing, the credit is yours. Unfortunately, though, this means our session is almost over."_

Half an hour? How? It couldn't have been any longer than a few minutes, but- how many times had he simply sat there, in silence, thinking? And Robert did not think to interrupt him even once? For half an hour?

And yet...

It worked.

_"Did you want to schedule an appointment for next week?"_

"Um. Uh, yes. Yes. Same time. If you can."

_"Of course. Din?"_

The cursor was already hovering over the button to end the call.

"Yeah- yes?"

_"I'm proud of you."_

The call ended. Din stared at his reflection in the blank screen, at his own dumbfounded face. He reached up, ran a hand through his hair. Messy, knotted. Needed a shower.

He closed the laptop lid, slowly. Pushed it away from him. Stared down at the cat in his lap, softly purring. Din reached under her as best he could and lifted her away from his legs. She woke briefly, shot him a glare, but curled up and fell back asleep as soon as he placed her back down again.

He slid off the bed, taking the laptop with him. Pedro was downstairs, on the couch, doing something on his iPad. Watching some recorded news broadcast, maybe. He'd been rewatching the one with Omera, trying to find an angle where they could see the portal, but- nothing. Nothing yet.

Din placed the laptop quietly down on the coffee table. Pedro squinted up at him through his glasses.

"Go well?"

Din only shrugged. Turned on the spot and began to walk toward the bathroom. How long had it been since his last shower? Couldn't have been too long but, then again, he'd just come to the conclusion that he no longer had any understanding of time, so.

He turned the water as hot as it could go without scalding him. The Crest didn't _have_ hot water, so he savoured every ounce of it he could get.

Sometimes he still took cold showers, though. Would turn out the lights, close his eyes. It's the closest he would ever get to truly feeling like he was back on that ship. But, well, he needed to get out eventually. As much as he didn't _really _care about his appearance, he didn't much fancy becoming a prune.

This time though, he made the water hot. Didn't care about how much it hurt. He'd get used to it in five minutes.

He stood there. For a while. At some point he leaned his forehead against the cold tiles, simply allowing for the hot water to run down his back.

Simple joys. Like hot water. Never even occurred to him on the Crest. Now he could have it whenever he needed. Strange, the things you learn to take for granted.

Pedro was nowhere to be seen by the time he was done. Peri was upstairs - he usually was - so Din had the entire bottom floor to himself.

Pedro's birthday was coming up soon, wasn't it?  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


24th March, 2020

"Okay, alright. You've never done this before?"

"I mean- well, I have, but- I'm not sure how different the process is."

"That's fine. Just do what they say. You want me in there with you?"

"No. No, that's alright."

Peri's leg bounced up and down. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he slouched in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Nearby, children played with cheap toys, while parents either watched on in either boredom or a strange overenthusiasm.

They had been waiting for... five minutes. They were late to the arrival due to traffic, but- hopefully it would be fine.

It was going to be fine.

"You think they'll let me keep the frames?" Peri mumbled.

"I mean... I don't know. I just buy new glasses. Granted, it's usually because I lost 'em. Oh! Before I forget, I gave you a fake name. For the booking. I didn't know if you were okay with me giving your real one, and-"

"It's- fine. Preferable, even. Thank you."

Pascal treated him like a bomb about to go off. Which was... fine. It was fine, really, it was all- _fine. _But it was eerily similar to Christopher. That was fine, too, but it could turn into a problem, and-

No, no. It wouldn't be an issue. Just... oh well.

"What's the name you gave?" he asked.

"Percy. I figured, it's pretty close. Easy to remember."

_Percy._

He actually... really liked it. Fit well. If he had to use a pseudonym, Percy worked well.

"Okay. That sounds good. Does Djarin have one too, then-?"

"Oh, yes." Pascal reached over to a nearby side table, where a small pile of newspapers sat. He picked one up and unfolded it. "Donovan. Doesn't go out much, though, so... never really used it."

"Suits him."

"Yes, I think so too. Had a backstory and everything, it was great. You want one too?"

Peri shot a glance over at the hallway to his left. Still nothing. He sighed. "Sure."

"You don't really care, do you."

"...Sorry."

_Crash. _A loud bang, then a childish wail. They both whipped around to face the noise. A child lay on their stomach, crying into the carpet. A father rushed over, picked up the child, placed them on their lap to inspect for injuries.

None, of course... but this wasn't going to stop the child from wailing. Young child, didn't understand.

Pascal turned back to the newspaper, but Peri continued to watch as the father fussed over their kid, trying to get it to calm down, muttering promises for a treat if they stopped crying, but nothing worked, and as time went on the father's face grew redder and redder until it could be compared with a tomato.

It... wasn't that the crying bothered Peri.

Well, it did. It was loud, and if it continued into his appointment he wasn't going to be able to concentrate, so... he stood, and approached.

The child was young. Couldn't be any older than four, barely through the toddler stage. He sat near to them, but not near enough that it was instrusive. Pascal didn't seem to have noticed that he'd left.

Peri turned to the kid, who was leaning over the father's arm, still wailing as they stared at Peri through the tears in their eyes.

The child could understand English. But could they speak?

"Hey," Peri began softly. "Did you have a bit of a fall?" The father heard this and turned to face him.

The kid nodded into the father's shirt, getting it wet with drool and tears.

"I bet it hurt. I'd be upset if I had a fall like that. Are you getting some glasses today?"

Another nod, still crying, but muffled by the father's arm.

"Glasses are fun. Maybe you can get some cool glasses."

The crying paused, sweet relief, and the child hiccoughed. "Like- like yours?" they stammered in a squeaky voice, sniffling. Peri laughed quietly to himself.

"You think my glasses are cool?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, maybe you can find glasses like mine. And then you can show all your friends how cool your glasses are."

Children.

He liked children.

He'd always liked children, he was good with them and they liked _him, _so... he... he wouldn't mind having children of his own, someday. Adopted, probably, or maybe a surrogate. He could imagine... raising a child with Asher. Boy or girl, didn't matter.

Maybe. Maybe, if everything went right, if everything turned out okay... maybe.

Getting old, though. How old was he now-? Forty... something. Forty-two? That sounded right, but... gods, he couldn't be sure anymore. Didn't know when his birthday was, never properly celebrated it even when he _did _know. The only birthdays he'd ever 'celebrated' since he was a _child _had been Christopher's and Ivana's. Even then it would be an exaggeration to call it celebrating.

There was a tap on Peri's shoulder. He turned and saw Pascal gesturing over at the hallway, where a tall blonde woman holding a clipboard stood, smiling over at them. They're ready, then.

He gave a small wave to the child, who waved back, and the father shot a true grateful smile at him as he disappeared into the hallway.  
  


* * *

  
  


As it turned out, there would be a lot of complications if he wanted to reuse the original frames. They said it would be fiddly, it was risky, they'd need to be careful and they would reimburse if the glasses broke, yadda, yadda... Peri knew the frames would be fine. They'd lasted decades.

They... they did need to alter them, though. The bridge needed to be replaced. This was... it was fine. Or, no. It wasn't. The idea of alterations being made to his _father's _glasses made him sick to his stomach, but- if they were not repaired properly then eventually, one day, they would be simply unusable. So the bridge was being replaced.

Everything else was fine. The rest could be fixed, easy. And they paid to have the lenses tinted, just like always.

Or... Pascal paid. Which was very kind of him.

Peri stood in the waiting room. Pascal talked to the receptionists, they were to come back in two weeks, pick up the glasses then, if they were ready earlier then they'd call, and it was when Peri's mind began to wander, staring out into the rest of the mall, that he saw him.

It was Omid.

Not doing anything, just walking. No bags for groceries, not even a phone in his hand. A steady pace, not in a hurry...

Gods, there he was. Five years spent not running into him once, now it almost felt like he couldn't bloody shake him. But he was there. Right there, within reach.

Peri's legs moved automatically. Only vaguely registered Pascal asking if he was alright as he began to walk. And then began to _run. _It was some strange desperation, something he hadn't felt before, but he _couldn't _let this opportunity get away from him, he could _not-_

"Wait!" he called. "Wait!"

People stared at him as he yelled, a woman with a baby shot him a glare, but he kept running and calling for him.

So close, now, so close.

"Wait!" He skidded to a halt, shoes squeaked on the white floor tiring. He reached out, with one hand, and took a hold of his shoulder.

He turned around so fast that it was a blur of movement. Omid stared, unblinking, at Peri, as he caught his breath.

"Um," he finally began, when his breathing had evened out, "I'm- I'm not sure if you're busy. But I-"

He paused. Words died on his tongue, in his brain. What had he wanted to say? Why did he want this so badly? He closed his mouth again. His face felt hot.

Omid did not look happy. Not annoyed, no, not angry. Just.. unhappy, in all the word's embodiment.

Peri took a deep breath, and tried again.

_Be calm._

"We didn't get to talk. Last time."

Silence. No response, so horribly awkward. Peri felt himself taking a step backward.

"I just thought- I-I just, I wanted to, to talk. Because I freaked out last time. But, but, I understand if you-" Another step backward. "You know? Nevermind. Nevermind."

He turned around. Began to walk again. _Stupid. _Pascal stared at him from where he'd sprinted from, looking so dumbfounded, and it only made Peri's face grow hotter.

But then, someone grabbed his hand, tugged at it, and in a quiet voice Omid spoke,

"Wait. Wait."

Peri turned once more, stared down at the hand gripping his own. Gods, wasn't that eerie? The same hand.

Kind of.

Ish.

He looked up, and for the first time, actually took a proper moment to study Omid's face.

The same, yes; eerily similar, but somehow so very different. Different eyes for one. Darker. But the hair was shorter, he was a _healthy _weight because he didn't ration out of habit- all this, and he was also... taller.

Well, that just wasn't fair. But Pascal was taller than Djarin. He supposed it made sense, growing up on different planets... Naboo's gravity was certainly stronger than a lot of planet's he'd encountered, at least. Wasn't sure about Mandalore's gravity, though it-...

...Getting sidetracked.

"None of this makes sense to me," Omid said. His hand dropped to his side. "But I do want to talk."

Voice. Strangely deeper. Sounded wrong. Everything was so different, but also so painfully, _ridiculously _the same.

"I've been here for five years," Peri blurted without a second thought. "But in such a short amount of time we have met twice. I always thought that perhaps this city was too big to run into you, but- apparently I was wrong."

"Five years...?"

"Yes, I was- I didn't have a home, for a while, two years... and then- oh, you remember Christopher, don't you? British? He yelled at you last time, I'm sorry. But he found me and he took me in. Him and his wife."

They both moved toward a bench, sitting in the centre of the room. Neither of them thought about it, but they both did it anyway.

"He's your friend?"

"Yeah. Yes- I know it seems- a bit strange, but, yes. He's..." he paused. Hesitated. How to word this? "He's very special. To me."

"Special?"

_I'd rather not go into detail. _"Without him I would be dead." Another pause. Uncomfortable silence. "Or worse."

A lot of the _shit _he went through, during those two years... he would have said it was worse than death, back then. He was grateful now to have lived through it, but the thought crossed his mind. More than once.

Whatever. It didn't matter now. He was safe, he had friends, it was _fine._

"This... is so, strange. Forgive me, I can't find a better word..."

"No, no... I get it. It's strange for me too. The- the difference is that, um, I knew about it all, already, so- but you had no idea, and you were just roped into it all. You shouldn't have been. I'm sorry. I hope- I hope you haven't been too bothered. Lately."

Omid stared down at the floor for a moment, at his feet, then looked up again. "I tried to forget about it. But I couldn't. I tried to pass it off in my mind as some joke, but it..."

"Felt real?" Peri offered. Hesitiation, then a nod.

"Too real. Hearing it all. I knew- when they talked about Pedro getting shot, I knew it was real."

"You heard about it."

"Who hasn't?"

Peri looked down at his arms, fiddled with the hems of his sleeves. Christopher... had done his best to ensure people did not find out. Interrupted calls for 911, erased reports, articles. Bordering on paranoia, did all he could, because- if people found out... if he was _arrested?_

It was... it was so difficult. Like nothing ever before. He had seen Christopher cry; sob, even. Not like that. Never like that. That first day, leading into the rest of the week. He never wanted to go through that again.

None of them did.

"-okay?"

"What?"

"I was asking if you're okay."

Out the corner of his eye he could see Pascal beginning to approach. Peri stood from the bench.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. I- should go. It was good to talk. Properly. Again, I'm- I'm sorry you were roped into this mess, you don't deserve that, and-"

He didn't. He didn't deserve any of it, none at all. Watching him leave on that day, sprinting out of the house, the door slamming behind him. He didn't deserve to feel fear.

"Wait, wait. Let me give you my phone number."

Peri halted. Omid fumbled with a pen that he'd pulled from his pocket, as well as a very small notebook. He tore a page from it then jotted down a series of numbers.

"Here." He handed the paper out. "Once in a lifetime thing, you know?"

Peri stared at it. Slowly reached out to take it, delicately, like it would disintegrate if he wasn't careful.

"You... heard what we talked about," he began, slowly. "On that day. You, knowing about this, puts you in danger." He stared back down at the piece of paper. "Christopher can protect you, I think he already has been, but associating with me... I don't- I don't want that for you."

He held the piece of paper back out again, keeping his gaze to the floor.

"Don't try to contact me. I shouldn't have run after you in the first place."

He felt the paper being taken from his hand, and he looked up again. Omid fiddled with the paper in his hands.

"You have a child," Peri mumbled. "And a wife. It's not only your life on the line, but their happiness, too. Now..." he turned, Pascal was closer now, but no longer walking toward them. He seemed antsy to leave, shifting from one foot to the other and glancing around the room. "I need to go."

"You have to be careful too." Omid stuffed the paper back into the notebook, closed it and put it in his pocket.

"I'll try."

They said their goodbyes. Even shook hands. Peri watched Omid leave for a good few seconds before finally turning and walking back from where he came.

"Sorry," he muttered as soon as Pascal was near enough. "Didn't want to just, leave it how it was."

"No, yeah, I get it. We should go, though-"

"Is something the matter?"

"No, no. Just Din getting all... Din. He messaged me three times in a row, he's home alone- you know? So."

They walked to the car in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. As soon as they sat down, though;

"Oh! Oh, wait!"

Pascal reached into his pocket, pulled out something small.

"Um, ah, I saw someone selling these. I guess early preparation? And I never bought any before, so I decided, why not? So I got you one as well. If you want it."

He held out his palm, and in it was a small round pin, coloured with the rainbow flag. No lettering, just the colours...

Peri took it. Held it out in front of him. Anything he tried to say, any words at all, dissipated before they had the chance to leave his mouth. He stared, speechless.

"They were cheap, so I thought- I mean, I'm not sure if you _celebrate- _and I don't know what your feelings are about the whole, I mean- I just thought it would be good. I got a lot of them. I don't even know what some of the flags mean..."

Strange. Strange, how such a small thing, a tiny little pin, could represent so much. Could mean the entire world, to one person. Peri clasped his hand around it, held his closed fist up to his mouth. No words. No words.

"Is it okay? I'm sorry if it's, like, a sensitive subject."

Peri's hand dropped to his lap, he opened it again. Stared at the pin. So small. But meant so much. Stood for so much.

Hadn't needed pride, in his own universe. No one cared back there. Not even Imperials. There wasn't even a term for it, it was just... normal. And on some planets, in some regions? Encouraged.

It was baffling, the first time Peri encountered those who had less than savoury thoughts about the matter. And then it happened again, and again, over and over and _over, _until... he stopped mentioning it.

Every year, Peri would watch pride from the sidelines. Wished he could join in. Yearned for it, to be accepted somewhere, even make some true and proper friends.

He met Killian, at one of those. Another one watching from the streets. Such a pity, the fate that befell him.

"It's- it's perfect," he rasped. "Thank you. So much, thank you."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"Okay, can you tell me what some of these are?"

The pins spilled out onto the table. One by one Pascal turned them over so they faced upward.

"Oh." Peri sat at the table, leaned over the pins. "Which ones?"

He watched as Pascal took the few he did know and push them off to the side. "All these."

"Okay. Okay, well, that's the non-binary flag, if I'm not mistaken. And then the- yes, the agender one. Genderfluid, intersex, then... I believe that's polysexual. And these two are the aromantic and the asexual-"

"Asexual?"

The sudden voice made him jolt in his seat. He turned and saw Djarin standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on the railing with one leg crossed over the other and his arms folded over his chest.

"Yes."

Djarin pushed himself off the railing and begin to slowly approach the table. He peered over them all, eyebrows furrowed.

"Pride pins?" he muttered, just barely loud enough for anyone to hear.

"Someone was selling 'em at the mall."

Djarin continued to stare at them. His head titled to one side, ever so slightly. Funny, how he did that.

"D'you... want one? You can take one, it's why I got them."

Hesitation. Very obvious hesitation, at that; Djarin's eyes flickered to Pascal then back down at the pins. They seemed to linger on one in particular, but Peri could not figure out which.

Slowly, though, Djarin's hand reached out. Stopped, more hesitation... but continued, and slowly rested his fingers on the small asexual pin. Dragged it toward him before picking it up and clasping it in his hand.

"Thanks," he murmured. Did a small bow, then turned on his heel and left.

As soon as he was gone, Pascal turned to Peri. "That was the asexual one, right?"

"Yes."

"What's that mean, though?"

Peri opened his mouth to respond, but then shut it again. Thought for a moment.

"You... should ask him yourself," he eventually decided on. "If he hasn't mentioned it already..."

Pascal bit his lip. Stared down at the pins, then over at where Din had just walked back up the stairs.

"I... think I can suspend my curiosity. If he wants me to know, you know. He can tell me."

"That's very admirable."

Pascal shrugged.

"Just human decency."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	37. Butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were the brightest shade of sun I had ever seen  
Your skin was gilded with the gold of the richest kings  
And like the dawn you woke the world inside of me  
You were the brightest shade of sun when I saw you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter one this time, sorry guys!

27th March 2020

Nothing much... _happened _in the next few days. Every morning, if he could, Din would visit Omera and Winta in the hospital. Omera was fully ready to be discharged but they hadn't yet because, well, she hadn't anywhere to go. Pedro had talked about having her and Winta stay in the house, but... even Din could see that he was reluctant. The house was getting crowded. Still, what else could they do? Din would rather die than see Omera and Winta with _Christopher._

So when the third day arrived, they needed to make a decision quickly. Pedro was fast to speak up.

"You can stay with us," he said. "I don't have any extra rooms, but, we can figure something out..."

It then occurred to him, that, they hadn't met Peri yet. The doctor had been staying home, not wanting to be an intrusion. What would they think of him?

...Not that he cared, he just... didn't want them to be overwhelmed. So many new people in such a short amount of time.

"Are you sure?" Omera asked, with that sweet, caring voice. "I wouldn't want to intrude. I know Winta can be a handful and especially during such a stressful time..."

But Pedro insisted. And Din... was okay with it. More than okay with it. If he didn't know any better he'd say he was excited.

...Or, maybe he was excited. Just a little. But he wasn't about to admit it.

"I have some spare mattresses lying around somewhere," Pedro said. "I don't think you should sleep in the living room, though. It's cold down there at night. You reckon you'd be okay sleeping in Din's room?"

Now, _that, _on the other hand... was not very exciting. Omera was okay with it. Winta was, too. Din didn't know what to think at all. He was fine with the idea of sleeping around others, Mandalorians in the covert didn't exactly have separate bedrooms, but this was _Omera. _What if he accidentally kept them awake at night with his tossing and turning? What if he woke up screaming again? The thought put a chill down his spine, he couldn't be responsible for their lack of sleep-

But he didn't voice any of this. He decided that... he would cross that bridge when they got to it. _If _they got to it.

That day, Omera was discharged from the hospital.

Din walked with her to the car. Held her hand down the stairs. Did his best to level his breathing, but gods, his heart was beating so fast that he could hardly even think-

Eventually, though, they were at the car. Winta reached it before any of they did, which was... cute. It was cute that she was so excited, despite the situation she was in.

Din helped Omera into the car, let her sit in the front, next to Pedro. Explained the seatbelt, then helped Winta with hers, too.

Felt nice. Felt good. Being able to help. Aid them with settling in. Getting used to everything. It felt good to listen to Winta's ramblings, even though he knew she was only doing it to cope.

They were adjusting so quickly. He imagined, though, if only one of them had come through... it would be an entirely different story.

Eventually the car pulled into the driveway, and Din was feeling more hopeful than he had felt in decades.

Strange.

The cat was the first to greet them at the door, and then the dog. He couldn't help but smile when he saw her, meowing up at him. He picked her up and she curled into a ball and it was lovely.

"What's that?" Winta asked, standing on her toes to get a better look. Edgar was already following Pedro to the kitchen.

"She's a cat," Din responded.

"She's wrinkly! Is she old?"

"No, she's very young. Most cats have fur. But this breed doesn't." He bent down slightly, so Winta could see. "She's my pet."

"What's her name?"

At this, Din froze. A name? He'd hardly considered it. She was just 'cat'. Sometimes 'dumb cat' or 'dirty cat, you need a bath'... he never saw much need for anything else. Besides, he didn't even have a name for his own _son._

"She doesn't have one," he simply said.

Winta frowned. "She needs a name."

"How about you name her?"

He'd only said it in a sort of spur of the moment thing, not expecting much out of it, but the way her face lit up when he said it made him so full of pride.

"Okay!" she exclaimed. "I'll let you know when I think of one!"

Then she ran off to Omera, who was helping Pedro unload groceries he'd bought earlier that day.

He could get used to this. That feeling in his chest when he saw them. He could get used to it.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps descending down the stairs. He looked up just in time to see Peri land at the base of the steps, with an awkward grip on the railing. He had a sort of dumbstruck look on his face. Slowly, very slowly, Din approached him.

"She doesn't bite," he said once he was close enough. Peri jumped.

"Oh. Um. Y-Yes, sorry. I was just- yes."

It was almost cute, in a strange way, how Peri stammered over every damn word he said. Not- not _cute _in an endearing sense, he was just, almost like a toddler learning to speak for the first time. A toddler with anxiety.

Omera heard his voice, and turned to him with a smile. Din almost melted, and at the same time, felt a pang of jealousy. _Smile at ME like that, please._

She spoke softly; "I don't believe we've met."

Peri shook his head. "I didn't- didn't want to intrude."

She held out a hand for him to take, and he took it, but when they locked eyes she froze. Her smile dropped, like she'd just had a terrible thought, and for a very drawn out and terrible moment they stared into each other's eyes in complete silence. Every inch of Din's mind was screaming at him to intervene somehow, but he did not.

They stood like this for a full ten seconds. Pedro was the one to clear his throat and snap them out of it.

Omera avoided Peri for the rest of the day, and Din... didn't want to question it.

Not yet.

* * *

Din helped Pedro haul the mattresses up the staircase. Omera offered initially, but was quickly reminded of her spine, and the brace, and she wasn't allowed to lift heavy things until she was healed, and... well, she did frown about it, but didn't protest.

It wasn't difficult to carry them. He wasn't even tired, but that didn't stop him from collapsing onto his bed as soon as they were done.

Omera and Winta joined him upstairs soon after that. Explored the room they would be sleeping in, but not daring to open any cupboards or drawers just yet.

It was... it was strange. Odd. Seeing them, in his room. Their room now, he supposed. All three of them. He'd never thought... after so long, he never thought he'd see them again. Even leaving Sorgan, watching the planet below him slowly fade from view as he ascended into the atmosphere, he distinctly remembered that feeling of loss. But they were here, returned to him. Like fate.

Was it crazy, to believe it was fate? Some higher power, meddling with destiny? It felt crazy. But what other explanation could there be? He wasn't religious. Never had been. The Mandalorian's deities were not truly explored in that sense. Once upon a time, yes, perhaps they were, but over the centuries they evolved into not simply gods, just philosophies, stories to live by and respect.

Din did not believe in any deities. But he couldn't help but think... _what if?_

Pedro decided not to cook dinner, that night. Too many mouths to feed - five of them, now, excluding the cat and Edgar. So instead, he left the house at five in the afternoon and returned at six with sushi. Simple enough, and not too jarring for Omera and Winta. They liked it, at least. Winta was uncertain, at first, as children are with new foods, but with enough gentle coercion she ended up finishing an entire roll.

After dinner, everyone sat in the living room. Even Peri was on the couch, huddled up to himself and reading a book. Squinting, without his glasses.

Pedro had given Winta a recipe book. Asked her if there was anything she wanted him to make. She flipped through it while the television played in the background, the initial wonder and amazement having worn off. Suddenly, though, very suddenly, Winta leapt from her spot on the floor and took two giant steps toward Din, where she then plonked the open book into his lap.

"I found a name for your cat!" she exclaimed, proudly.

"Yeah?"

"Butterscotch! It's yellow, like her eyes! Do you like it?"

Butterscotch. Butterscotch, Butterscotch, Butterscotch.

He shot a glance over where the cat slept, on the carpet under the coffee table.

"I love it," he said. And he smiled.  
  


* * *

"Diiin?" Omera poked her head out behind the bathroom door. "How does the shower work?"

Din flushed a violent red. The fact that she didn't merely step out and ask for aid meant she'd already removed her clothes. He didn't care for this, no, not really, that had long been established in his mind, and the pin hiding in his drawer was a reminder of that fact, but _still._

"Um. The, the taps. You- turn them. The metal handles..."

"Right. But which way?"

"Uh. Uh, left."

She disappeared back into the bathroom, the door shutting behind her. There was then the sound of running water, and a muffled 'thank you!' called out from behind the door.

Cute.

* * *

  
  
  


There were few things in life, Din decided, that he loved as much as seeing Omera wear casual modern clothes. A baggy grey shirt two sizes too large which she'd tucked into shorts that needed a belt to keep above her waist. It shouldn't have been as stunning as it was, and yet.

Regardless it was only going to be temporary. Pedro was planning on taking Omera to buy clothes that she liked, ones that fit her.

It was late, around ten in the evening, by the time Winta could be calmed down enough to go to bed. Omera joined soon after, then finally... Din.

He'd been staring at the ceiling for an hour. Tired. Exhausted, even. But scared. What if he had another nightmare? What if he woke up screaming? What would they think of him?

He didn't remember the dreams. Didn't want to, was _grateful _not to, but- but maybe, if he knew? If he knew, maybe he could talk about them, work on them, make them _go away. _It was fine when the only person being bothered by them was himself, but now, with Omera and Winta in the mix? It was going to be an issue, he knew it was going to be an issue, but- what was he supposed to do, if he could not remember them?

What were they? The kid? Omera? Were they dead? Was it the same nightmare, each night? What could it be? What could it _possibly _be that it woke him - him! - up in the middle of the night _screaming? _He'd had difficulties with nightmares before all this, the dimensional shit, but never on such a degree. And back then at least he remembered the damn things.

Not at all, anymore. Not even remotely. The ones he did remember, at least... were good.

Usually.

Sometimes... sometimes...

There would be those stupid dreams, those ridiculous _awful _things, they were supposed to be good, he knew they were supposed to be good, but no matter how much he thought he _should _enjoy them he'd still feel sick to his goddamn stomach.

He sat up in the bed. Reached over to his bedside drawer, slowly and quietly pulled it open. He grabbed the small little pin from inside, then lay back down again. Held the pin above him.

He remembered that feeling. Going to google, searching and praying for something that might explain it all. And there it was. An entire community, and a flag to go with it.

Asexuality, it was called.

He'd thought something was wrong with him. Something else to add to his pile of bullshit. But it was okay. He was okay, and- there was no better feeling, knowing he wasn't alone. Finding a label that was right, for him.

Asexual. He was asexual. It made so much sense. It couldn't have been anything else, after all those years, avoiding advances and not understanding _why? Why would you want that? _But now he knew. And he could understand.

He created an account, on the AVEN website. Hadn't used it for anything yet. Maybe he was scared, but- he had it, now. He was okay. He had his colours, and he would wear them.

One day. Maybe.

The pin was a decent start, at least.

Peri knew, now, of course... but Din wasn't worried about that. More... Pedro. Yes, he knew Pedro was _at least _an ally if not a part of the community himself, but _still. _Would he understand?

Not that it mattered. Why would it matter, if he understood or not? Still, the thought scared him.

_What about Omera?_

...this, this scared him the most.

Terrified him. It was clear- it was very clear, that _some _form of relationship was being built, albeit slowly, it was there and it was happening and it was very clear, he liked her and she liked him, but- but what if? What if _she _didn't understand? Would she accept it?

He rolled over onto his side, clutched the pin tightly in his hand. Beautiful colours, the flag... he liked it. It made him happy, they were soft and quiet. How childlike was it, to find so much comfort in a simple set of colours? Yet, it was true.

Sometimes he felt like a child. With the way he behaved and felt. Irrational emotions. Getting in the way.

But they weren't irrational. That was what Robert said; _"they're not irrational, Din. Emotions are a part of life. Without them, we are not truly living, merely existing."_

And, yeah. Sure. But that didn't change how much he hated them. How much easier, life would have been. Though, then, he supposed, he wouldn't really have been living at all. Might as well be a droid.

Which... was Robert's point.

Still.

"Are you awake?"

The voice was quiet, but still it made Din jump. He sat up in the bed, glancing around the room frantically before his eyes landed on Omera, who was sitting upright on the floor and looking over at him.

"Is everything okay?" he asked. He saw her silhouette shrug, then heard her sigh.

"I can't sleep. I suppose you can't either."

"...Yeah."

"Can I join you up there? Just to sit."

"Oh. Oh. Sure."

She stood from the mattress and lifted one leg over onto the bed. Shuffled forward, then sat cross-legged.

"I'm sorry you have to sleep on the floor," Din whispered.

"Oh, it's quite alright. Those mattresses are more comfortable than my own bed back at home."

"Still. I feel bad, being up here while you're down there."

She shrugged. He could see more of her face now that she was closer.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Must be around midnight. Maybe later." He couldn't be bothered checking the clock. "Why're you having trouble sleeping?"

"New place. I'm not used to it yet. That's my excuse though, what about yours?"

To lie, or not to lie. _That is the question, _Din thought bitterly.

He didn't _want _to tell her. Why should he? What good could it do? But the way she looked at him, with those big earnest eyes. Even in the dark he could see them, beautiful, dark brown. How he wished he could stare into them without needing to tear his gaze away.

"Not tired," he mumbled. Technically it wasn't a lie. Just... an omission of truth. He wasn't tired, not truly. 

Omera's head tilted slightly, like she was debating something. But she didn't say anything, instead began to slide back off the bed and onto the floor.

"Pedro's birthday is coming up soon," Din whispered, out of the blue. Omera looked up at him.

"Oh?"

"Do you know when yours is?"

"Oh. No... no, I'm afraid to say I don't. Not even back home. I wasn't born on Sorgan. And Winta's has already passed..."

She trailed off. Turned to stare out the window. The stars shone bright in the sky, a clear night. 

"Do you miss it?" Din asked softly. "Sorgan?"

Her gaze fell to the floor, let out a sad sigh. "Terribly. I try to make light of the situation, but every time I look at Winta... it's like a sense of- I don't know the word."

"Dread?"

"Perhaps."

There was more silence, but then she took a sharp intake of breath, looked up at Din.

"Today," she began, "Just today, when I met- oh, what was his name? The one with the glasses? Peri, wasn't it?"

"...Yes."

"Yes, him. When I met him and I saw his eyes, I got this feeling."

Din's stomach sank. He rested his hands in his lap, very barely resisting the urge to clench them into tight fists and dig his damn nails into his damn skin. 

"This very strange feeling. The oddest thing, I can't place it."

He pulled the covers closer to him, then slid downward, so he was lying down again and staring up at the ceiling.

"Sleep on it," he mumbled. "It'll come to you." He rolled onto his side. 

What was that?

_Jealousy?_

What a fool he'd been.

* * *

"Is everything alright?"

Peri snapped his notebook shut, trapping the pen inside. Omera stood at the base of the stairs with one hand still on the railing and the other buried in one of her pockets.

"Ah. Um, yes. Yes."

"Have you been awake all night?"

For the first time in a long while, Peri glanced around the room, and found, with some amount of dismay, that it was certainly brighter than it was before. How long had he been writing for? He'd left the bed at, oh, one in the morning? Couldn't sleep.

Her hand dropped from the railing and she began to approach, moving almost sloggily. Tired.

"I could ask the same of you."

She shook her head, quietly pulled out a chair and sat in it. "I managed a few hours. My body clock is all backwards, I think. It was night on Sorgan when this all happened." She sighed. "Everything is so..."

"Fucky?"

She paused. Blinked. "I-I suppose that's one way to put it, if that's what you... prefer."

Strange.

Strange meeting her, even knowing they were from the same universe, for until recently he'd only ever seen her on a screen. It was like looking at someone from the victorian age wearing modern clothing for the first time. It was simply odd. 

"I have a question," he began suddenly. "If you- don't mind my asking."

"Not at all, but I warn you, I am exhausted."

"When you came through, to this world, did you see... anything? Beyond an orange light? Was there a, a ring of sorts, perhaps an oval or a circle in the sky?"

She stared down at the table with a thoughtful expression, biting her lip. Drummed her fingers on the wooden table.

"No," she eventually spoke. "The light was all I saw. I admit I closed my eyes, but I like to think anyone would have..."

Peri chuckled bitterly. "Yeah. From the height you fell from. I'm surprised it was only your spine that was fractured. How is it treating you, by the way...?"

"Oh." Omera sighed and glance down at her torso. "The brace is uncomfortable. But manageable."

"Any pain?"

"Only mild. You're the doctor, aren't you? The one Din told me about?"

Peri swallowed harshly. His hand moved upward to adjust his glasses but he caught himself just in time, remembering that he didn't actually have his glasses.

"I don't suppose he bothered to mention me by name."

"Oh. No... sorry, he didn't. Just-"

" 'Doctor', yeah. I-I get it."

She shifted in her seat, leaning slightly forward and resting her forearms on the table, her hands intertwined in front of her.

"Does that bother you?"

Peri slid his notebook toward him and plucked it off the table, catching the pen in his hand as it fell out. He stood from the chair which screeched loudly on the wooden flooring.

"More than it should. If you'll excuse me... I should be getting some rest." He did a small bow, then turned on his heel, leaving Omera seated at the table.

"Goodnight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/not_harmonious/)


	38. One of those nights.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With my back on the floor  
Cold linoleum icing my growing pains  
Watch the ceiling fan turn it's shape again  
My threads are coming loose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like this one :)

31st March 2020

The rest of the month flew by. Everything was still sort of settling. Winta seemed to be finding it... difficult. Usually, she had her friends back on Sorgan... so she spent most of the day either blabbing her mouth off to anyone who would listen or playing with the pets.

The cat... or, Butterscotch, he supposed, wasn't very playful. She liked to laze around. But Edgar wouldn't leave Winta alone after the first couple days and now they were practically inseparable, to the point where Pedro joked that she'd stolen his dog.

Din was in the middle of giving Butterscotch her weekly bath. He liked being able to care for her. Gave him something to do. So he found himself looking forward to it. He'd run the water, just warm enough to be comfortable, then pick her up and put her in. This time, though, Winta had offered to help, and... well, he couldn't just say no. Not with those wide eyes staring up at him.

"So what do I do _now?_"

She held the wet washcloth in her right hand and stared at the cat. Din had a firm hand holding Butterscotch in place so she wouldn't try to jump out, but he didn't really need to. She wasn't that much opposed to water. She didn't _like _it, no, she always looked pissed off during the whole endeavour, but she tolerated it enough and seemed to at least understand that it was for hygiene.

"Use this soap." It was technically shampoo - for cats - but he always called it soap. "Put a little on the cloth, yes, like that, that's a good amount- and then gently, _gently _cover her with it. Use circle motions."

He watched carefully as Winta ran the cloth over the cat until he felt there was a decent amount of lather. He then reached for a small paper cup Pedro had lent him and handed it back over to Winta.

"Scoop up some of the bathwater," he said, "and then pour it over where there's soap. That's it, gentle."

She finished pouring the water, and scooped some more to get rid of the last bits of soap. After that Din grabbed the towel which had been draped over the radiator for warmth, then drained what little bathwater sat in the tub. He quickly scooped Butterscotch into his arms - ignoring her meows of protest - and wrapped the warm towel around her like a baby.

"_Meow._"

"I know."

"_Meow._"

"I know, I'm the worst. Forcing you to have a bath. I'm a terrible cat-dad. But it's over now, no more water. And no more oil-stained bedsheets." He sighed. "For a while, at least. Oily cat."

Winta giggled. "Oily Butterscotch."

"The oiliest. You want to hold her?"

"Is she heavy?"

"A bit. Here." He leaned over, holding Butterscotch out in his arms, gesturing for Winta to take her. She held out her arms and Din gently lowered the cat into them, waiting until Winta had a proper grip around her.

Slowly he pulled back his own arms. "Good?"

"Yeah." Winta smiled down at Butterscotch, who in turn stared up with an unimpressed look, evident even with a cat's non-expressive face. "Can I show Ma?"

Din used the wall to pull himself to his feet. "If you're careful."

"The carefullest!"

Such a wonderful girl. He couldn't help but smile as he watched her carry Butterscotch out to show Omera.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It was late. He wasn't sure how late exactly, he couldn't be arsed rolling over to check the clock on his bedside, but he couldn't see the moon outside his window which meant it must've been at least around midnight. He'd been going to bed earlier and earlier even if he didn't sleep. Winta's bedtime was around nine, and Omera usually went to bed soon after. So he joined them, even if just to hold quiet conversations with her until they both passed out from exhaustion.

This night, though, he'd actually managed to sleep. Until now.

He'd heard it in his sleep. He knew because he was dreaming, and he remembered _thinking _about it in the dream, wondering what it could've been. Then he woke up, and it was pitch black, but he could see the faint outline of Omera sitting upright on the floor.

"What was that?" he mumbled.

"I think I heard a yell," she responded quietly. "But I don't think it was from Pedro's room..."

Pedro was right next door, so if it was him it would've been louder. Which meant it had to be... Peri.

Great.

Omera stood from the floor, brushing off invisible dust from her pyjama pants.

"Where are you going?" Din asked.

"I'm going to check on Peri."

"Why?"

She turned to him. He couldn't see, but he knew she was giving him a Look.

"Because he might be _hurt._"

"He's probably fine."

She shook her head and moved toward the door. She had just begun to turn the door handle when Din leapt from the bed and reached out to grab her hand.

"Wait. Wait, I'll go."

...Because, well, if there really was trouble, he wasn't going to let her get hurt. He couldn't.

She sat back down on the mattress. Din turned the door handle and stepped outside into the hallway. It was pitch black save for the moonlight illuminating the living room below the railing. The floorboards in this hallway creaked, so he chose his steps carefully so as to avoid it. Before long he was standing before Peri's door.

It was already open slightly. Barely a crack, but open nonetheless. He couldn't hear movement from inside, but he still was as silent as he possibly could be as he reached out to push open the door.

Thankfully his eyes were well adjusted to the darkness at this point, or else he wouldn't have been able to see anything. But he could see Peri laying on the bed curled into a ball, the covers having been seemingly kicked away. Din knew he wasn't asleep though because his breathing was too fast and ragged.

He took a slow step forward, and the floorboard creaked. He winced, and Peri's breathing immediately halted. Din decided to speak.

"I heard your yell," he said quietly, but hopefully loud enough for Peri to hear. "Did something happen?"

Peri's head turned toward him until he was looking over his shoulder. Even in the darkness Din could see his eyes moving back and forth.

"...Are you Pedro or Djarin?" he whispered. Din suppressed a laugh.

"Djarin," he said. "Your door was open-"

"I- I left it open. I wasn't feeling well. I'm... still not. Feeling well."

"Sick?"

"Something like that. I'm- I'm fine."

Din took a step forward, wincing again as the floorboard creaked underneath him. He made his way to the bedside where Peri still lay in a lazy fetal position.

"Nausea?"

Peri stared up at him. He was squinting.

"Um." He inhaled shakily. "Yes. It's fine. I'm fine. I probably caught a bug or something, I'm- I'll be fine."

"You sure?" he asked, but immediately regretted it as Peri's expression darkened.

"I'm _fine,_" he insisted, with all the confidence of someone who had just been caught in a lie. Then he rolled over to the other side and Din was met with his back.

He should've left. He didn't need to push it. But Din was- _curious. _Yes, that was the word he was looking for. He was painfully curious. He knew from decades of hunting that curiosity was dangerous, but- he wasn't exactly hunting, was he? Peri wasn't his bounty. He could be a little curious, for once...

"You're clearly not-"

"Stop pretending to care."

His mouth snapped shut. Din felt like he'd been doused in cold water. The words sounded harsh, far too harsh to be coming out of the doctor's mouth. He didn't know how to respond, anytime he opened his mouth the words died on his tongue; but he needn't reply at all, as Peri continued to speak, his back still turned against him.

"I thought after I told you my name," he sniffled, "that things with you would start to be better. But you- you don't even fucking use it. Do _not_ claim concern for my wellbeing when you don't even address me by my own fucking name."

_But I do, _Din almost said. But then he remembered; he only ever used it in his mind. Never out loud. Once, by accident, but... that didn't really count, and Peri hadn't even been there at the time.

He took a step back, toward the door. The floorboards creaked again.

"Let me know if you need anything," he grumbled. Then left.

He did care.

As much as he hated to say it, as much as it went against everything he'd stood for, he did care.

He always did, honestly. The pride got in his way. Corrupted his mindset. Why should he care for an _Imp, _after all?

But he did. In a strange way. Not in the way he cared for Pedro, or Omera, or anyone else. It was just... sympathy. And he didn't like sympathy. It got in the _way._

_Of what?_

_Hunting?_

_You're not a hunter anymore._

_You're allowed to care._

He supposed that was true. It made sense. But admitting it, out loud? ... an entirely different story.

Still, it hurt to close that door behind him, knowing Peri had watched him leave and said nothing.

_He really thinks I don't care._

Well, it was a fair assumption. They'd hardly even talked. The two conversations they've had had been almost entirely negative.

And... well. Despite it all, Din still couldn't find it within himself to trust him. _He hurt the kid, he's an Imperial... _those thoughts played in his mind, over and over, and he couldn't simply shake them away.

Din stood by the railing, peered down at the floor below them, with the pale moonlight filtering in through cracks in the curtains. The moon was full and bright.

He didn't know how long he stood there, but he knew Omera would be getting concerned. Still he didn't move to go back.

The world felt peaceful.

He liked it.

The darkness reminded him of the Crest. Sitting in the cockpit, drifting in the void- not in hyperspace, not even flying. Merely floating. Allowing momentum to carry him through the emptiness. Sometimes he sat in bed and closed his eyes and pretended to be back there. Those nights were good nights. He didn't have nightmares on those nights. Or- or if he did, they didn't wake him up.

But he couldn't do it all the time. He couldn't surround himself in fantasy. Facing the real world, his situation, his _feelings; _it grounded him. Reminded him he was human. And real. Not some disembodied spirit.

Sometimes he felt like a disembodied spirit. Sometimes he got confused.

Sometimes he'd leave his room and go downstairs and not even remember getting out of bed.

That was scary. It was always scary, no matter how 'used to it' he claimed to be. Pedro called it dissociation. The label fit. But he still hated it. Hated it for what it was and what it implied.

He should talk about it with Robert. It could help. But that was scary, too.

He was getting better though. He knew he was, he could feel it. Even before Omera, he could feel it. There was less anger. More fear, yes, but he preferred fear over anger. Fear kept you alive. Anger granted nothing except pain, physically and emotionally.

It was still there, though. Quietly festering. He pushed it away when he could, but sometimes... sometimes...

Like when he hurt Pedro.

*** * ***

He hardly remembered it. Just- being touched, and then ringing in his ears, his vision flashing, his nerves on fire, artificial pain and the _rage _coursing through him like bouts of electricity.

And then it was done, and Pedro was bleeding, and they were both crying. It was done.

He remembered the sounds. They were too clear. He remembered it was like pots and pans on a highway. He remembered it was like someone was screaming at him, but he couldn't hear them, because of the ringing, the _ringing_. He just remembered the overload of _everything, _and he remembered all too clearly how he was convinced that he was dying.

He really, truly believed it. Everything hurt and everything was loud and everyone was crying. It felt like the world was crying. It felt like time and space had stopped in it's path to mourn in lament. It felt like reality was screaming. Hurting.

*** * ***

He didn't remember hurting Pedro. He didn't feel in control. He didn't even remember raising his voice, but that look, at the time, on Pedro's face...

He used to be able to remember. Sort of. Ish. More like flashes of memory over anything cohesive. But eventually it faded. Or maybe he just couldn't distinguish the reality of the situation from fantasy.

The door behind him creaked open. He tightened his grip on the railing. Slow footsteps, too heavy to be Peri's.

"Everything okay?" Pedro's voice infiltrated the silence.

"With me, yes. Did I wake you? Sorry."

"No, no. I haven't slept."

Pedro stood next to him by the railing. He heaved a great, tired sigh.

"You should check on Peri," Din grumbled. The name rolled far too easily off his tongue. "Said he's not feeling well."

"Yeah. I heard."

Another door creaked open, and Omera stepped out. Din peered behind Pedro to look over at her. Even in the darkness he could see her concerned expression.

"Is everything-?"

"Yes," Din and Pedro spoke in unison. Funny. She joined them, too, by the railing, standing on Din's side.

"I guess no one's sleeping," Pedro mumbled. "One of those nights."

"One of those nights," Din echoed.

Another door creaked open behind them, Peri stepped into the hallway. Din continued to stare out into the darkness of the rest of the house as the other two turned to greet him in a short chorus of mumbles.

"Look at us all," Pedro sighed. Peri joined them by the railing. "A bunch of sad insomniacs. What time is it?"

"Two in the morning," Peri mumbled.

Pedro hummed. Drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the railing, then held up a hand like he'd just had a realisation.

"We can do something. All together. A game, maybe. Team bonding." He chuckled. "Let's be a bunch of goddamn children. Stay here."

He disappeared into his room, leaving the three of them standing awkwardly in the hall while they waited.

"Are you alright?" Omera asked softly, turning to Peri. "I heard-"

"I'm fine."

The reply was so abrupt and abrasive that it stunned even Omera into silence, leaving her mouth hung open and her eyebrows raised. Before she could formulate a reply Pedro's door swung open again and he stepped through, holding a small deck of colourful cards.

"UNO, anyone?"

He was met with blank stares.

"Come on. Let's ruin some friendships. I'll explain the rules."

Pedro ushered for them all to sit on the floor, and they followed, arranged in a strange circle with Pedro opposite Din and Peri opposite Omera. Pedro began to pass out cards, counting as he went - in Spanish, of course he would - until they all had seven cards each. He placed one on the floor, a red card with the number six written on it.

"Okay. Don't let anyone else see what cards you got. Fan them out, so you can see 'em... okay. So! The person to the left of the dealer is the first player... Pershing?"

"Oh."

Peri stared down at his selection of guards, biting his lip. He seemed to consider them for a moment, then slowly plucked one from his hand and moved to place it on top of the card in the centre. A blue six.

"Okay, Omera's next."

The rest of the game flew by. Din... was surprised to find that he rather enjoyed it. Even if being skipped over and over by Omera was irritating, the enjoyment he got out of slowly adding to Pedro's hand was enough to counter that, and the looks of betrayal he got every time he did was priceless. At one point it was simply him and Peri playing their skips over and over until they ran out; and Omera promptly placed her last card, effectively winning the game. The pride plastered on her face was worth all the skipped turns in the world.

"Everyone up for another round?" Pedro gathered the cards and began to shuffle them with surprising precision. Omera nodded and Din shrugged, but Peri sluggishly shook his head and moved to stand from the floor.

" 'M not feeling well," he explained with slurred speech. "You have fun, though..." He turned to his bedroom door, but paused abruptly after only a few steps. He seemed to sway on the spot, then... collapsed.

Pedro sprung forward, catching him just before he hit the floor. Everyone jumped to their feet.

"Pershing? Peri? Hello?"

No response. Pedro sighed deeply. He used his other arm to scoop up Peri's legs and carried him bridal style back to his bedroom.

"Is he alright?" Omera asked softly. "Is he ill?"

"Passed out. I'm going to call a doctor."

Din, against his better judgement, followed them back into the room just as Pedro lay Peri down on the mattress and pulled the covers over his shoulders.

"He hasn't been _eating _enough," Pedro muttered. "I told him, multiple times, that he's free to eat whenever and whatever he wants, but he has it in his stupid head that it would be invasive or impolite." He turned to face Din with an exasperated expression. "You know, for someone as smart as he is, you would think he'd know the _consequences of_ _refusing to eat!_"

He took a deep breath. Pressed his back against the wall and slid down. "I need a break."

Din sat down on his knees opposite him, resting the palms of his hands on his thighs.

"You should take one. A holiday."

"And leave you and him alone in the same house? Har har. Like that would go well."

"Omera's here too. And Winta."

Pedro's head fell to his chest. He sighed again, even deeper than before. "My phone's on my bedside table," he mumbled. "Can you get it for me?"

Din left through the door. Omera was standing just outside, holding the UNO cards tightly in her hand. He walked past her, into Pedro's room, where he then made a beeline for the phone sitting on the small little table, plugged into a powerpoint. 20% battery. He'd been using it.

He walked past Omera again, and this time she followed him back into Peri's room. Hovered awkwardly over where the doctor lay, frowning with concern etched into her expression.

"At least he's getting some rest," she sighed softly. "Do you know what's wrong? Was he simply exhausted?"

Din approached, leaving Pedro to talk over the phone.

"Pedro said he hasn't been eating enough."

"Oh."

No one spoke again until the call-in doctor arrived. And even when Din retired back to bed, he didn't sleep for the rest of the night.  
  


* * *

  
  
  


1st April 2020

Peri had woken up very soon after the doctor arrived. As it turned out, his condition was not serious. Fainting could have been any number of factors, the doctor explained; hunger, dehydration, or even just, plain and simply, exhaustion.

Despite this, and despite Peri eating whatever Pedro shoved his way for the last day and a bit, the nervous atmosphere in the house was extremely prevalent. Even Winta had noticed.

It was late now, though, and everyone else beside Din and Pedro had gone to bed.

"Your birthday is tomorrow," Din said.

"Yup."

He pulled up his legs onto the couch so that he was sitting cross-legged.

"You should take a holiday. For your birthday." At the expression on Pedro's face, Din continued, "You deserve it. You've done a lot, for all of us. You didn't have to take me in, or... Peri." A deep breath. "Or Omera and Winta. It's not like everything will blow up while you're gone."

"It could."

"It won't.

Pedro was silent for a moment. He reached over to the remote and switched on the television. "I'll think about it. Wanna watch a movie?"  
  


* * *

  
  


"Boo!"

"Ah!"

Laughter echoed from underneath the bed sheet stood before him. Din reached out, frowning, and it pulled it off, revealing a joyful Pedro hiding beneath. He placed the sheet onto the pile of laundry balanced in his arms ready for the washing machine.

"What was that for?" Din whined. He could hear Omera's own laughter from the couch in the living room.

"It's April 1st!"

"So?"

"So April Fools! Oh, by the way, what you want for dinner?"  
  


* * *

  
  


_I fainted last night._

_Oh my god._

_Are you okay????_

_I guess. My housemate called a doctor over. I'm not dying, so_

_I'm just a bit shaken_

_Christ. that must be terrifying. i've never fainted before. i'm always here if you wanna talk about stuff :((_

_Thank you ;-; I don't really wanna talk about it now. just really tired, and I want to sleep. but I can't_

_hmmm_

_do you always struggle with sleep?_

_yeah. I've just accepted it at this point_

_hmmmm_

_my dad used to sing to me when i couldnt sleep_

_maybe_

_i could call you?_

_i don't have a great voice but maybe itll work for you too?_  
  
  
  
  
  


_That sounds lovely_

_i'd love that, yes! i'll grab my earphones_

_:D <3_  
  
  
  
  
  


_okay. i'm ready_  
  
  


Peri rolled over onto his side, his phone resting on his pillow. He stared at it, waiting for Asher's name to show up on the screen. When it did, he hit the answer button so fast that it didn't even have time to ring.

_"Hey," _Asher's voice filtered in through the phone. Instantly Peri's chest and stomach were filled with butterflies, pleasantly overwhelming feelings, he held his hand over his heart with a giant smile plastered on his face.

"Hey," he said simply, any other words having left him altogether.

_"God. Feels good to hear your voice again."_

"Same for you... it's- it's been a difficult time, stuff's... happened. I just wanna listen to you, for now."

He rolled onto his back and pulled the covers up to his chest.

_"I'm sorry. I wish I could help more than just singing a lullaby. Whatever's going on, in your life, I hope it gets better for you soon."_

He closed his eyes. "Thank you."

_"It's no problem at all. And I'm always here for you if you wanna talk. Even in the dead of night. Call me and I'll be there. Okay... ready? Close your eyes, get comfy."_

"I'm ready."

There was static indicating a deep breath, then, he began to sing.

It was no familiar tune. But the softness of it, the care behind every word and syllable invoked such an all-encompassing feeling of nostalgia. Misplaced and forgotten memories suddenly played in his mind. His mother singing lullabies, his father reading books. Listening in to the same muffled words uttered to his brother, pressing his ear against the wall. Light rain on the roof and the window hanging ever so slightly open, allowing in a pleasant breeze and aroma.

Perhaps, for a little while, he could allow himself to indulge in the lost memories.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The messages glared at him. Mocked him. A series of 'is everything okay' gradually turning into 'are you okay' and then eventually 'what happened's and he still could not answer. He could not bring himself to answer. His hands shook with every slight movement. Grasping his vibrating legs with enough force to turn his knuckles white.

Another missed call. Another message. Growing frantic. How to function?

Tired. So tired.

No sleep.

A scraggly reflection. The beginnings of a beard. Oh god, he hadn't shaved. Hair, too long. It was too long. Had to function, needed to _sleep!_

Sleep, sleep, sleep! He couldn't. Could not, must not. _Work _to do. So much work to do. He had so much work to do.

Splashed his face with water. Cool. Better. Calm. He could breathe.

Everything would be fine. He'd figure it out.

He _had_ to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> support me on [ fiverr!!! ](https://www.fiverr.com/share/mYmx8V)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)


	39. Okay, Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, all I hope for  
Is to be a bit of warmth for you  
When there's not a lot warm left  
To go around

2nd April, 2020

"There has to be something."

_"Look. Farnes, I'm sorry. But there's nothing I can do for you."_

"I can pay. I don't have much, but I-"

The line went dead. He was left in silence cut only by the heartbeat playing loud in his ears.

He dialled the next number.

_"Hello, this is-"_

"I need to speak to Elliot."

Silence. A sigh. _"I'll get him on the line."_

He waited, foot tapping nervously on the carpet, trying and failing to slow his breathing, and with it his heart. He reached deep into his pocket and tugged out a small piece of fabric which he then began to fiddle with in his right hand, folding it and feeling the rugged texture against his fingers and palm.

_"Hello?" _Elliot's thickly accented voice finally came through on the speaker after what felt like hours.

"I need help."

_"Oh. It's you. Look, I already-"_

"Please."

_"I have a life to lead, Christopher! A family! Whatever it is, I can't help you, and neither can-"_

"Please. It's Eleis, he-"

_"I'm fucking eighty, and you're asking me to deal with Eleis? Get a grip. The answer is no."_

Another dead line. Incessant beeping. He scrunched the fabric in his hand, frantically dialled the next number as harsh tears began to form, blurring his vision and making his eyes sting. The nervous foot-tapping turned into shifting from one leg to the other, over and over.

_"Hel-"_

"I need your help. Please. I can pay. Whatever you want. I'll do it. Eleis-"

_"Hey, man, I think you have the wrong number."_

A southern, male voice he didn't recognise came through the speaker. He fell into stunned silence. He'd typed the number wrong, in his blurry-eyed franticness.

"S-Sorry to disturb you."

He ended the call and let his hand drop to his side. The phone slipped from his grasp, falling to the floor with a soft thud as it hit the carpet. He grabbed the other end of the cloth in his now empty hand and tugged at it.

_Breathe._

* * *

The waves washed over the sand while seagulls cawed and crowed above them, diving into the sea for fish then emerging with nothing because of the gaggle of children who deemed it wise to chase them away. They laughed, and splashed, squealing when water was flung over their head only to dunk their full face into the salty ocean anyway.

Din and Omera sat in the shade, away from the high tide, on one of the two towels Pedro had brought with him. Peri sat up above, closer to the water, but still far enough away to avoid the families and dogs. Pedro played in the ocean with Winta, who had begged for a trip to the beach. Naturally, Pedro decided his birthday would be a good day to go.

The sun was setting. The sky slowly turning pink. They'd been out for barely an hour, though, since Pedro had been busy with friends and family for the majority of the day. They'd need to be leaving soon, before it got too dark and chilly.

Pedro took them all to buy bathing suits, of course. Din had refused, he didn't care for swimming, but Peri, Omera, and Winta had each taken theirs gratefully. Even though Peri _had _the bathing suit, he hadn't ventured into the water at all. In fact he'd seemed fairly reluctant to even leave the house. Enough coercion from Pedro did end up being enough but it was... just something Din noticed.

Omera had only swum for a little while before deciding she was tired. Fair enough, considering how late it was in the day, and really, this was _fine, _but... she wore shorts, and a cropped shirt, made of bathing suit material. It was simply... different. He could never have imagined seeing her wearing something so modern. With her hair tied into a bun, using a cheap packet of hair ties that Pedro found in a shop.

Din found himself staring. Because she was beautiful. Even if Pedro would tease him about it later, holding bold assumptions about why he stared at all. It was simply because she was beautiful, nothing more, nothing less, and if Pedro wanted to tease him for certain feelings that were not and never would be present, then so be it.

"The sky is beautiful here."

Her voice interrupted his thoughts, cutting through like a knife decorated in pretty jewels. She turned to face him, her eyes met his, and he quickly averted them to her jaw.

"On Sorgan, the sunsets were always hidden by the trees. The only place you could truly see it was if you climbed very high."

"Did you?" asked Din.

"Oh, yes." She sighed softly, shifting her legs so that they were crossed. "When I first settled in the village. Before I had Winta, my husband and I would find a tree, a very tall tree, and climb up so high, to where the ground looked so far away. And when the sky turned pink, I would put my head above the trees, and I could see our star over the horizon. We would watch until we could see the moons."

Husband. She'd never mentioned her husband before. Din waited, for a moment, expecting a spike of jealousy, but... it never came. There was no need to be jealous.

"Do you miss it?" he asked. "Do you miss him?"

She hummed. Shifted her position again, so she was properly facing Din. In turn, he properly faced her.

"Occasionally I reminisce, yes. But it has been nearly twelve years, now, since he died. I like to think I have moved on, and... I do believe I have, truly. He would not want me to be miserable, not when there is simply so much joy left in the Universe. In all reality, even, across all these dimensions. However many there are."

Her hand reached forward from her lap, outstretched in front of her, expecting, waiting. Din stared at it, unsure what to do, and rather doubting his sensibilities. But her hand did not move away, nor did her confidence waver, so Din decided, despite himself, to trust his judgement; he put his own hand into her open palm.

Her fingers closed around it. Delicate and soft, cool to the touch from being in the shade. Again she spoke,

"Yes, I suppose I do miss him. But he is now long gone, and I have new memories to make. A life to lead."

She turned his hand over in her palm and ran her fingernails over the scars. She released a soft sigh, comfortable and content.

"I am glad to have met you," she said. "Despite all of this. Seeing your face, I-"

She cut herself off, all too abruptly. Her head turned to look at Winta, who was being given a piggyback ride into the deeper water. Even from where they sat, so far from everyone, the joyful laughter was loud and clear.

"I wanted to," she continued. "From the moment I lay eyes on you, I wished I could. It was selfish. I felt so awful when I realised what I'd almost done, trying to take off your helmet. But now I get to see you."

She turned back to face him. Her other hand lifted from her side and moved slowly up to his face. Her fingers met his skin, rested there for a moment, then when he did not pull away, her hand cupped the underside of his jaw. She ran a thumb over his cheekbone. Din leaned into it.

"You're pretty," she said. "Your eyes, your skin. Under all that metal. I can't comprehend wanting to hide such a pretty face." Her hand dropped back to her lap. "I suppose, no matter how hard I try, I won't ever understand it. Will you ever put the helmet back on?"

The question was so sudden, so abrupt, that Din had to take a moment to process it. He blinked, opening his mouth to respond, then closed it again to swallow. Omera did not push. She sat, patiently, her thumb repeatedly running over the scars on his hand.

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

The reply was immediate. Spoken with such conviction that he couldn't help but feel taken aback.

"I want to wake up in the mornings and see you, not a hunk of glorified metal. But what I want doesn't matter. I asked if you will ever put it back on."

Tears threatened to spill over from his eyes, and onto his cheeks, but he blinked them away and swallowed the harsh knot that had formed in his throat. "Never."

"Don't just say that because of me. It should be your decision."

"I don't want to. I don't want _it._"

Omera smiled, ever so subtly, and she squeezed Din's hand. He squeezed it in return. They exchanged no more words, as Pedro had begun to trek back across the beach with Winta on his shoulders, her chin resting on the top of his head. He paused at Peri, said something to him, and gestured over to the exit.

The sun had very nearly completely disappeared over the horizon, and the air had grown cold. Omera let go of Din's hand and stood, grabbing the jacket she'd shed earlier.

"Winta's tired," Pedro said once he was within earshot. "And I am too, so."

They packed their belongings into a large duffle bag, which Din opted to sand off and carry back to the car. He walked slow, allowing the others to hurry back, namely Peri who was shivering even under the thick coat he'd donned.

The ride back to the house was silent, but not in any uncomfortable way. Peri sat in the front, this time, next to Pedro, meanwhile Din and Omera sat shoulder to shoulder in the back as Winta slowly nodded off.

By the time they arrived, it was completely dark, and Winta was fast asleep. Pedro carried her to bed, though Omera initially intended to, she was dutifully reminded of her fractured spine.

When he came back downstairs he made a beeline for one of the kitchen cabinets, throwing the door open and reaching in for a bottle of something.

"I have," he popped off the cork, "birthday alcohol."

"Did you get that today...?" Din plonked himself onto the couch next to Omera.

"Jon gave it to me. You want?"

Din thought about it for a moment, and briefly, he seriously considered it, but decided, in the end, that drinking was probably not a good idea. So he declined. As did Omera, though that wasn't much of a surprise, however, what _was _a surprise was that Peri accepted. Just one glass, he'd insisted, but then Pedro offered another glass after he was done, and he'd begrudgingly accepted that, too.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

"Chris can't drink..." Peri explained with a sigh and a slur. "So it's been a while..."

"Mm, can't drink?" Pascal leaned back in the armchair as far as it would go.

"He can't process it. Said that, that last time he had alcohol he nearly _died... _I 'on't want him to do that."

"Oh."

Djarin and Omera had gone to bed a while ago. Apparently sick of 'endless ramblings' or... whatever. Peri wouldn't say that he was drunk...

...or, maybe a little. It was difficult to tell intoxication from sleep-deprivation.

"Yeah... oh, happy birthday, did I say that yet...?"

"Yeah."

"Mmf. How old? Age?"

"Ugh. Forty-five. I think. You're like... like... forty..."

"Something."

"Something, yeah."

He swirled the drink around in the glass. His head was heavy and his eyes were beginning to droop. Surely it couldn't have been that late, yet, he was truly exhausted.

"I think I'm gonna go on holiday," Pascal hummed. "I'm gonna visit my fam'ly."

"Oh. When?"

"To..." he yawned, "...morrow. After I get your glasses... from the, the thing."

Peri opened his mouth to respond, but before he'd even got the first word out Pascal had already fallen fast asleep, his empty glass resting on the coffee table. Strangely peaceful, even in such an awkward and uncomfortable position. Could only begin to imaging the amount of tension residing in his entire body. Shoulders, back... the headaches the poor man must have been getting.

Peri gathered their glasses and placed them into the sink, as well as putting the bottle back in its place in the cabinet, with however much was left of it. He briefly considered attempting to carry Pascal to his own bed, but even in his mildly drunken state he could feel this would have been a bad idea, so he instead resigned to pushing him into a laying down position and draping a thin blanket over his shoulders.

"Happy birthday," Peri mumbled. "Sleep well."

* * *

"It was my friend's birthday today."

_"Oh, yeah? How old?"_

"Forty-five."

_"Wow. I'm not even thirty yet."_

Peri's eyes snapped open wide. He sat up in the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, his phone clutched tightly in his other hand.

"S-Sorry, what?" he stuttered. "How old are you?"

_"Twenty-seven. Why?"_

Twenty-seven! _Twenty-seven! _This whole time, this _whole _time, Peri had been very nearly twice Asher's age. Why hadn't he asked before? Why was this only just coming up? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"Nothing. Nothing, it's- it's just-"

What was he going to think? Would he be uncomfortable? Was everything about to be _ruined?_

"I'm- I'm forty-, uh, three. So-" _Is that right? I don't know anymore._

_"Oh. So... that's about..."_

"Sixteen years," Peri rasped.

There was momentary silence. Peri's heart was beating out of his chest, he clutched it with his hand. _Stupid. _Surely, now, it would all be ruined. Sixteen years...

_"Hey, you alright?"_

"That depends," he sniffled. "Are you?"

_"Of course._" The reply was instantaneous. _"The age gap doesn't bother me. Does it make you uncomfortable?"_

"No. I just thought- I thought that you would."

_"Not at all."_

Peri released a shaky sigh. He fell back onto the bed, resisting the urge to bury his face into the pillow so he could continue talking.

_"I've actually dated people even older than that, so, it's kinda a running theme at this point, you know? I'm not surprised, is what I'm tryna say. You look young!"_

He felt like he should smile, but none came. It should have made him happy, happy and relieved, but none of that came either. Maybe it was the alcohol.

_"Peri?"_

"Hm?"

_"You didn't respond. Did I say something wrong?"_

"No. No, I just... I'm just tired." _And mildly tipsy. _But he didn't mention that.

More silence. He could almost feel Asher's thoughts through the phone. Thoughts laced with concern.

_"Are you okay?"_

There it was.

"Why?"

_"That's not a question you answer with another question. I can't force you to talk about, about whatever's goin' on, but, I wanna help, you know?"_

Something in his voice, maybe. Something in the way he spoke, so calm, so kind. So soft. Peri could not possibly keep anything from him.

"A- a friend of mine." He swallowed harshly, forced himself to continue. "Hasn't been answering the texts on his phone. And, and I'm really- I'm so fucking worried."

He couldn't help it. The tears formed in his eyes, and he didn't have the will to hold them back anymore.

"He's- we're supposed to message each other every day, _every _day, just to tell each other that we're both alive. That's we're okay, but, but he hasn't said anything to me in over a week. Eleven days, I think, and- I'm, I'm so _fucking_ scared. What if- what if something happened to him? His wife isn't answering me either, or his friend, I-"

He cut himself off, did his best to steady his ragged breathing.

_"...I'm sorry." _Soft, kind voice. _"That... must be super tough. If there's anything I can do..."_

"Being with you is enough."

_"Then, I'll stay. It can be like we're sleeping next to each other."_

He wished he were physically with Asher. In that comfortable bed. He could imagine it; cuddling, under the covers, ignoring the rest of the world, because, when they were together, nothing else _mattered._

As cheesy as it was.

"I'd like that."

* * *

"Did you mean it?"

Omera's eyes cracked open and were met with pitch black. It had been- well, she didn't quite know how long it had been, but a while. Long enough to know she was going to spend another restless night without so much as a wink of sleep. That was okay, though, in some twisted way; because Din wasn't sleeping either.

"Hmm?"

"You said I'm 'pretty'. Did you really mean that?"

Each time they spoke, each touch, each stolen glance, butterflies upon butterflies flooded over her like a tsunami, feelings she had not felt, had not _dared _to feel in so very long. Yes, she meant it. Of course, she meant it. Every single word.

"Why would I say something I didn't mean?"

"I don't know. I guess I just don't get it."

Why him? Why him, of everyone in the Universe? Of the boys and girls in the village, any of whom she could have had her pick, why did she fall for the faceless stranger with a green baby?

At least now, he had a face. And she had real, true, and proper reason to adore him as much as she did.

"I suppose you've never had many compliments."

"...yeah."

His skin. Goodness, his skin. How to even begin? Just bordering the line of tan, much lighter than her own but not at all pale, accentuated not by blemishes such as acne but rather a frightful amount of scars. On his jaw, across his nose, dangerously close to his eyes. She wanted to run her fingers along them like she had done with the ones on his hand, and she wanted to ask how he got each one. The history, his life. She wanted to know it all.

"Well, I will give you twice as many to make up for it." She sat up and looked over toward Din, who was also upright with his back against the headboard. As soon as he noticed she was staring his gaze quickly averted to his lap. "Can I join you up there?" she asked.

Din's mouth hung open, anything he was going to say apparently dying on his tongue. He made a strange garbled sound, shut his mouth again, then nodded.

So Omera stood from her mattress and scrambled onto the bed. Comfortable, soft, and warm. She only intended to sit, but couldn't help but wish she could climb under the covers. Maybe even curl up close to Din... if she was lucky. How warm his arms must be. A gentle embrace.

Maybe one day.

"You're also pretty," Din muttered. Omera felt herself blush.

"Tha- thank you," she stammered, flustered. "I'm... happy, that you think so."

The wind outside blew on the trees, making the twigs and leaves hit hard against the closed window. Sounded almost like splatters of rain. Calming, in a way. It reminded her of the harsher nights on Sorgan. She remembered that Winta would be scared of the wind, fearing the trees would topple over and land on their little cottage. The winds were never strong enough, of course, but that didn't quell the fears of a five-year-old's imagination.

She slept well. Strangely well, given the situation they all were in. The things going on around her. She ignored them. On purpose, of course. She wasn't oblivious. She just chose not to address it, and instead intended to brighten all their days instead. And it worked, she was the light in an otherwise gloomy atmosphere. Cooking with Pedro, or playing with the pets. Asking Peri questions or even simply talking to Din about this 'television show' she'd discovered.

Peri was scarily smart. He didn't show it, he didn't _look _it, but he was. She'd seen, out the corner of her eye, the sort of things he was writing in those books. Numbers and calculations she couldn't begin to comprehend, possibly ever.

"Omera?"

"Hm?"

He stared at her, through the darkness, with wide eyes. Kept to her chin, and she wished he would meet her eyes, not for the first time. Still, it didn't matter. He opened his mouth to speak, and it hung there for a moment. Words stuck. He wasn't good with words.

"Wait," he said. "Um..."

He reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a small notebook, along with one of those clickable pens. After switching on the lamp he flipped to an empty page and began to write. He was nervous, Omera could see with the way his hand flew across the page, the writing was rushed and messy. When he was done, he tugged on the paper and tore it from the book.

He took a moment to stare at it, look over it, before finally taking a deep breath and sliding it toward her.

She plucked it from the bed. Brought it up to her face, but she couldn't read it properly in the dark. She voiced this, and to her surprise Din shuffled over and gestured for her to sit next to him near the lamp. So she did.  
  


_So, I don't know how to talk about this sort of stuff. But my therapist said I should, he said it would help me, and I trust him, so I wanted to tell you what I'm feeling, I guess._

_I don't know if I'm any good at showing it, especially to you. I can't make eye-contact, I don't like being touched (usually), I'm just so shit at expressing my emotions, and half the time I don't know what they are. But I know what I'm feeling now, for you, and my therapist said that if I don't tell you then I won't know if I ever had a chance._

_I like you. I really like you. I've liked you since we met, and after spending so much time with you it's so hard to get you out of my head. Most of the time I don't even want to. You're more than just pretty, you're so beautiful, and you've probably caught me staring. I'm sorry. But you're the first one I've ever liked like this. And I needed to tell you that before it ate me alive, even if you don't feel the same. I hope, that, if you don't, then this doesn't make everything awkward. Above everything, I want to be your friend. Nothing will change that._  
  


Relief. Was that it? Was that what she was feeling? Had to be. Relief flooded over her like a gentle wave at the beach. She pressed the note against her heart with the palm of her hand. When was the last time she'd felt at all like this?

"I like you too," she whispered into the silence.

There was a soft release of air, a shaky sigh of relief. Din tucked his chin to his chest.

"Okay," he murmured. Omera could hear the smile in his voice. "Okay."

She reached out her hand and offered it to him. There was no hesitation when he took it, not like last time.

"I'd like to be more than friends," she said. "If that's what you want, too."

"Yeah. Yeah... but-" he looked up again. "But, slow. I want to go slow."

"That's a very mature decision."

"I'm getting there. I just- I-" he sighed deeply, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small round object. "I don't know when else to talk about this. It's either gonna be too soon or too late, and I prefer too soon, so. Do you know what this is?"

She shook her head.

"It's a pin. You attach it to your clothes, just looks pretty. This one- this one is a pride pin, for the LGBT- oh, you don't know what that is, either..."

"Take your time."

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "LGBTQA is this, this community of people who- well, it's like, some guys like guys and some girls like girls, you know?"

She nodded. "Right. I like both."

"...Oh. Right, yes, well, it's a community for people like that, because, because here a lot of people think it's wrong."

"Right."

"So, so my- my thing, is in that. LGBTQA is an acronym, it stands for- it stands for, Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, and asexual. There's more than that but that's the basic acronym. Mine is... I'm asexual. Which means-"

He stopped abruptly. Something like fear in his eyes, he fiddled with the pin in his palm. Strange, really, the incredible contrast from that confident warrior on Sorgan, to now, without the armour and so very vulnerable. She loved him all the more for it.

"It... means, that... I don't feel sexual attraction."

He paused, perhaps to garner a reaction, but she did not cut in. Mulled the words over in her head, and felt as though she could understand them, but...

"...In regards to me?"

"No, to anyone. At all. Ever. It, it makes me," he brought a hand up to his chest, clenched into a fist, "_physically _sick. The thought of all that. I've had dreams." He flushed a violent scarlet. "I've had dreams. And I had to throw up. Do you understand?"

He stared at her, with those wide eyes, pleading with trembling hands.

"Understand..." Omera sighed. "I don't know. But, if that's how you feel, then I don't have the right to question it."

"You're not upset?"  
  
"How I feel doesn't matter. These are _your_ feelings. No, I don't understand it, but I do accept it. And I am glad you told me." She offered her hand again, and he took it. "Too soon _is _better than too late. Thank you."

Silence. The grip around her hand grew tighter, then, an audible sniff. She turned to look at him just in time to see his other hand wipe away a stray tear with the back of his sleeve.

"Are you sad?" she asked, pressing her shoulder against his, hoping to provide some sort of comfort. But he shook his head, and in the drab lamplight she could see the small smile playing on his lips.

"I'm okay," he sniffled. "Relieved. I guess, I guess I thought you wouldn't accept it. Or believe it, I don't know."

"Well... I do."

How could she not? Maybe she didn't fully understand. Maybe it would baffle her, but, that didn't matter, she was not him, did not share his experiences. Anyone could preach 'bullshit' (wasn't that the term?) all they wished; it wouldn't change anything.

"It's late," she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. He tensed up though, so she moved it off.

"Yeah," he said.

"We should sleep."

Omera began to shuffle away, slide off the bed, but before she even had a foot off the side he reached out and grasped her hand.

"Wait." His voice unsteady and nervous. "Stay."

She considered declining. Reminding him that they were supposed to go slow. But she wanted to stay. Sleep alongside him. And he wanted it, too.

Besides, he'd been having nightmares... right? She'd pretended not to notice. Maybe staying would help. That could be her excuse. Not that she needed one. So she stayed... joined him underneath the heavy covers. Her heart hadn't beat so fast in so long, and as overwhelming and energising as it was, gods, she'd missed it terribly, and welcomed it.

Her hand found his, trembling. But as soon as she grasped it the trembling stopped.

"Sleep well," she whispered.

He was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally going to be pure fluff but, me being me, that did not happen  
Had fun with this one, let me know what you thought of it :)
> 
> submit commissions to support me on [ fiverr!!! ](https://www.fiverr.com/share/mYmx8V)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)


	40. the calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just to meet me in the middle of the road  
And you'll hold me like you'll never let me go  
And beside the salty water, I could hold you close

3rd April, 2020

Peri had his glasses back, now. It was almost strange to see him in them again. No longer squinting at his own writing. Din would hate to need glasses, he decided. Too much of a bother.

"You can just heat up the-"

"I know."

"I _know _you know," Pedro huffed, though he couldn't hide his smile. "Humour an old man. You can heat up the packaged food, make sure you take it out of the packaging first! Uh, if there's any issues with the house, like plumbing, electricity, whatever, call Jon. You have Jon's number?"

"Yes." He had done so for a while, and Pedro knew this, too.

"Good. Okay, good. And if there's an emergency-"

"Nine-one-one, yes."

"Okay. And-"

"Feed Edgar and Butterscotch at eight, one, and six."

"...Yes. Okay."

Pedro grabbed the handle on his suitcase, but didn't move anywhere toward the door. In fact, he seemed rather reluctant.

"Pedro," Din stepped forward. "We'll be fine."

The nervous excitement he'd been radiating only moments before dissipated, and it was replaced with a sad pout.

"But you might not be."

He could almost see it, every moment leading up to this flashing across his face. Pain. Grief. Far too much. Too much.

"If... something happens," Pedro mumbled. "No matter how small it is, call me. I'm willing to talk. I know you're getting better now, but-... you are, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Getting better. You are getting better, right? You say you are. But you always used to- you used to say you were fine when you weren't. I can see that you're getting better but, but I don't know anything about this sort of thing. I just want you to tell me the truth. You are getting better?"

Din bit his lip. He averted his gaze to the floor, crossed his arms over his chest.

"I feel fine," he finally decided out loud. "But Robert said that this would be slow. I think..." he lowered his voice, "Omera distracts me. So does Winta, and Butterscotch. I feel fine, but I don't think it means anything for right now."

He brought up his gaze, and they lingered on Pedro's nose, before finally, he mustered the strength to meet his eyes.

It only lasted a moment. But it meant something, at least.

"Okay," Pedro murmured. "I believe you. Can I-"

He held out his arms, didn't finish his sentence, but he didn't need to. Din stepped forward and allowed himself to be engulfed in the hug. If Pedro noticed the tears, he didn't mention them.

"Make sure you eat," Pedro said after they stepped back from the hug. "And make sure everyone else eats. I don't want to hear about- about any more fainting."

As if on cue, Peri could be heard descending down the stairway, with Omera and Winta not far behind him.

"No more fainting," Peri said, with a strangely monotone voice. "Promise."

"Better bloody not." Pedro once again abandoned his suitcase and extended his arms. Unlike Din, Peri hesitated, but finally stepped into it.

"Take care of yourself," Pedro said. "I'm serious."

"I'll try."

"I believe in you."

He said his goodbyes to Omera, hugged Winta tightly upon request, gave Edgar one last pet, then finally turned to leave.

He paused in the doorway, released a huff of breath.

"If Christopher bothers you about anything," he said, only loud enough to Din to hear, "just fuckin' ignore him until I get back."

He left.

* * *

  
  


One thing sort of led to the other. Din was... bored. And Edgar needed to be walked soon. So he approached Omera, and asked her to walk with him. Not expecting her to agree, though he wasn't sure why.

So now they walked. And had been walking, in almost complete silence, though not uncomfortably, for ten minutes.

"Can... I ask you a _very_ personal question?"

"...depends."

Omera fixed the scarf around her neck then shoved her hands deep into her pockets.

"It's about the whole asexual thing."

Something in Din's chest seized, and he felt almost a surge of fear. An irrational fear, he knew this. Still, Omera must have noticed.

"You don't have to answer!" she exclaimed, once again adjusting the scarf. "I just thought- that I would ask. I didn't want to use the 'google'... thought perhaps I might find something you did not wish for me to know."

They walked in silence for a moment, the only sounds being the ongoing traffic and their shoes landing heavy on the concrete, as well as Edgar's panting.

"Okay," Din said. "Ask away."

"Alright." She was briefly silent, presumably thinking, then took a deep breath. "So, you said that intimacy- oh, I suppose I should just say _sex, _makes you physically ill. Right?"

"...right."

He didn't like where this was going.

"So, I couldn't stop thinking, what about, when it's just you? Do you understand what I mean...?"

He did.

Din crossed his arms over his chest, hugging himself. He wished suddenly to tear the hot itchy scarf off his face.

"I mean," Omera continued when he didn't respond, "I don't know if you have ever _tried... _really, you don't have to tell me, I was simply curious about it."

"I... understand. Can I have a moment to think?"

She nodded. "Of course."

This was not the sort of thing he'd ever imagined discussing with anyone. Even Omera, it just, it wasn't something he thought about. Or wanted to think about, for that matter.

"I've tried," he mumbled. His face felt hot. Embarrassed. "Only once. After the dimension hop. I thought it would make me happier." He bit back a sigh and shook his head, waving his hand dismissively.

"It didn't?"

"It didn't."

She hummed quietly to herself, and that was the end of the conversation. They continued walking, in surprisingly comfortable silence, through the streets until they began to become more and more crowded. Pedro didn't necessarily live in the suburbs, but he wasn't fully _in _the city either. As they walked, the crowd got denser and the buildings got taller, as well as more cars flooding the roads.

"I think it's rush hour," Din mumbled to himself. Usually, the sun would have set, but it seemed the seasons changing had made the days longer.

"Rush hour?" Omera questioned.

"People are done with work for the day, so they're all driving home." Had Pedro been in LA still, and not on a flight to Chilé, he would have been about to arrive home from whatever acting jobs he had lined up.

Edgar stopped walking suddenly and barked loudly. On the other side of the street was a rather large park, and in it was an array of more dogs.

"Seems like he wants to play," Omera hummed.

"Edgar," Din turned to look down at the dog. "You want to play with the other dogs?"

Another bark.

"I'll take that as a yes."  
  


* * *

  
  


4th April, 2020

"What about _kissing, _then?"

"What?"

Omera rolled over in the bed so that she was facing Din. It was early morning, Winta was downstairs eating breakfast. She hadn't said anything about the two of them sharing a bed... though, Din could imagine she _thought _a lot of it. Hopefully... hopefully she didn't mind.

"Does kissing make you ill too?"

"Oh."

He'd... never thought much of it. Didn't seem like something he cared about, but... the thought didn't make him sick.

"I don't know," he mumbled truthfully. Intimacy... was something he'd witnessed from quite a young age. As fierce as the Mandalorians were, they didn't _hide_ their desires, especially for each other, so... but, with the helmets, there wasn't exactly a lot of kissing going around apart from, well... head-butting.

Omera was silent. She was thinking, staring into space. Din allowed himself a glance at her eyes. Just as beautiful as before.

"Would..."

Din knew what she was going to say before she even finished her sentence.

"...you like to try?"

He couldn't... quite describe the feeling that flooded over him. Perhaps if given a pen and paper, but in the moment it was simply some far off emotion that he did not have the words for. It wasn't negative. Nor inherently positive either, it simply _was_. It existed.

He did want to try. But it was too soon.

"Not yet," he spoke into his pillow. And he knew she would not mind.

It was incredible, now, knowing that she was _okay _with it. She was okay with waiting. He wasn't afraid anymore, he didn't need to be, he _trusted her._

"What about cuddling?" Her voice was soft, kind, melodic. "Hugs?"

He tilted his head up slightly. She peered at him through those dark eyes, lids half-closed. If they weren't careful they were going to fall asleep again. Not that he would complain, but...

He nodded. Omera did not hesitate to scoot herself closer, so close that he was sure he could feel her breath against his face. It remained like this, for what felt like an eternity, but was more like a few seconds. Din's heart thundered in his ears, and for once, it wasn't for any horrible reason.

Omera turned over, onto her other side so that she was facing away and he was staring at the back of her head, then, she reached back, grabbed his hand from under the covers, and pulled it over so that his arm was draped over her waist.

She was pressed against him, but it wasn't in any way invasive, or uncomfortable.

"This is okay?" she whispered. Birds chirped outside, Winta must have opened the window.

"Yes," Din whispered in return. He was sure she could feel his heartbeat, maybe even hear it, with how hard it was beating. She felt so delicate. Surprisingly delicate, she was small. Not eating enough? Or just her natural frame? He'd never noticed, never dared to glance below her shoulders, was she always so small? He could feel the rise and fall of her stomach as she breathed; in and out, in and out. Calm, slow, purposeful. Was she thinking about his breathing too? Was it too fast, did he need to breathe deeper? Now he was thinking about it, now it was uncomfortable, forcing himself to breathe at a rhythm he deemed acceptable, no longer on autopilot. But if she noticed, or cared, she didn't say anything.

Neither of them said a word, for a very long while. He wondered what she was thinking, what was going through her mind. Did she think thoughts that would give him nausea, or did she purposefully stray from those? Was her mind racing, like his, or was she simply allowing herself to be lost in the moment, not thinking about anything at all?

He supposed he'd never know.

And that was okay. He didn't need to.

"I like this," he whispered, more to himself than to her. She squeezed his hand.

"I'm glad," she murmured. He could hear the smile in her voice. "I like this too."

He allowed himself to close his eyes. Took a deep breath, realised he could smell the shampoo in her hair. The scent was nothing new. Everyone in the house used the same products, but regardless, it felt somehow special.

Her was soft. Or, it looked soft, smooth and shiny. He would have run his hand through it had she not been holding it, and his other one buried underneath him. That one was going to go numb, but he didn't care.

The first day without Pedro... maybe it wouldn't be so much of a clusterfuck after all.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"So I have been doing research."

"Okay..."

"I would be bisexual."

"Yes."

Omera moved the food around on her plate. Winta had finished dinner early - so she could watch television before it was time for bed - which left the rest of them still seated at the table. Including Peri, who looked strangely uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the topic of conversation, but, well, he wasn't exactly straight either.

"What about you, Din?" Omera asked. "Do you like boys, too?"

"I don't think so."

She hummed. "Peri?"

Fork still in his mouth, Peri glanced wildly over at the two of them, eyes wide and looking pale. He pulled the fork out of his mouth and swallowed the food harshly.

"Yes?" he rasped.

"I was wondering if you like boys, too."

He stared, blinked, then flushed a bright scarlet. Attempted to speak, but all that came out was a jumbled mess of incomprehensible sounds.

"Perhaps I should not ask so casually?" Omera hummed.

"Per-perhaps," Peri stammered. "It's, it's fine. Unexpected. Um, yes. I- yes. Except... I don't like girls."

"I see."

Silence fell among them, and now the only sound was the television playing quietly in the background. Winta watching some cartoon.

They finished the rest of the meal in silence, too, and the only time any of them spoke to each other again was to bid Peri goodnight.

"I made it awkward," Omera sighed later, slipping into pyjama clothes. Din had his back turned to her, facing the far right wall.

"He's always awkward."

"Around you, maybe. I find he is quite pleasant to talk to."

Din raised an eyebrow, though she couldn't see it.

"He's very intelligent," she continued. "Even outside of his field. You can turn around now."

They both hopped onto the bed, and under the covers. Omera wasted no time assuming the position they'd been in the previous night. Warm, soft. He wished it would last forever.

"Sorry to change the subject, but I wanted to ask you something."

"Mm."

"You said..." she sighed, hesitated. "I'm sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. You said that, you 'had dreams'. I wanted to ask... what of. I suppose I could assume," another sigh, "but I don't like to assume."

Despite himself, Din buried his face in the nook of her neck. His face felt hot with shame. Though she couldn't see it, he still felt the urge to hide.

"I don't remember specifics," he mumbled truthfully. "But, but it was you, and me. And when I woke up..."

He trailed off.

"It's alright," said Omera. "I'm sorry for asking."

He pressed his forehead further against her neck, wishing to disappear, even if for just a moment. Took a deep breath.

"Do you dread those dreams more than the nightmares?"

At this, Din froze up. He lifted his face from her neck, tried to see her expression, but his eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet.

"You noticed?"

"It's difficult to miss."

"I'm sorry."

She wiggled out of his arms and rolled over onto her other side so that she was facing him. He found himself immediately missing the contact, but... at least he could see her face, now.

"Why an apology?" she asked. Din shrugged as best he could lying on his side.

"Doesn't it wake you up?"

"Mm... well, sometimes. But it's not your fault, and I don't blame you for it, dreams are not something one has control over."

She took a deep breath, then released it slowly. She looked so calm, so relaxed, that it made even Din's eyes begin to droop. He reached for her hand, and she willingly gave it. Warm.

"I don't remember them," he whispered. "Sometimes I wake up screaming. Or crying."

She shuffled closer to him, but instead of rolling over again she curled up against him, her head resting just under his chin and her legs brought close enough to her chest without impeding on his space.

"How often do you have them?" came her soft, whispered voice.

"Every night."

There was some brief silence, interrupted only by some particularly strong winds outside, and the twigged branches of a tree hitting against the window.

"Even with me here?" she finally said.

"Yes. Usually, I just... wake up, and it's very sudden. And I'm very awake, very alert. I wish I could describe... I can't find the words..."

"Could you write it down?"

"I can't be bothered."

She chuckled, and he felt it against him. Melodious sound, even as she tried to stifle it.

"That's alright," she said simply. "It's alright."

They didn't speak again for the rest of the night. Din didn't mind. Having her with him, her presence; it was enough.

And, if he got a full nights sleep, without waking up one single time, well, he didn't quite mind that either.

* * *

5th April, 2020

"Doc-"

Din faltered, the word dying on his tongue, as he stood in the backyard's doorway. Peri looked up from the bench, but didn't say a word, waiting patiently for a continuation.

"Peri," Din finally said. Immediately the eyes widened behind the circular lenses. "Peri, I wanted to ask you something."

It seemed to take a moment for him to gather himself, but when he did he cleared his throat and nodded, indicating for him to go on.

"You're with that guy," Din began. "Right?"

"Asher, you mean...? Well, it's not an official relationship just now but, but I suppose."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "So, what do you... do, then?" At the look on Peri's face, he hastily continued, "I don't know how relationships work. Especially since mostly all you do with him is text back and forth, right? So what do you do? What do you talk about?"

There was brief silence, a moment of apparent consideration. Peri hummed to himself quietly, tapping the end of his pen against the book in his hand.

"Just, whatever we like, I suppose. Really, romantic relationships aren't much different from platonic ones. There isn't romance without friendship, not really. Anyone who claims otherwise is a fool. So don't think about it as a romance, and you'll find that it's much easier to just talk. Even then, you don't need to talk, you know? Sometimes you can just exist, with each other, and that's okay, too."

_I see._

He'd thought, maybe, that he was missing something. That he'd accidentally skipped a vital step he hadn't any idea about. Because, the thing was, it didn't feel any different from before he'd confessed. Yes, they were spending more time with each other, sleeping in the same bed, but other than that, it was just like nothing had really changed at all.

"She loves you," Peri said, after Din's extended silence. "Very much. Don't worry about getting it right just yet. One small error won't send her running. I imagine it's much the same for you."

Not too long ago, Din wouldn't have dreamed about going to Peri for advice, but... apparently things had changed. Felt too fast, for his liking. But he decided it was okay. Pedro trusted him. Omera trusted him, Winta, too.

It was okay.

"I misjudged you," said Din. "I'm sorry."

"No." Peri shook his head solemnly. "I hurt the child. I was an Imperial. You had every right to hate me."

"I didn't hate you. I never hated you, I just hate the Imps. You happened to be one of them, and... I don't think you chose it."

A silent nod. "My family was killed, and I was taken. After that I didn't have a choice." He turned to stare out into the garden. "None of us did."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"I told her," Din sighed.

_"And how did that go?"_

Relieved. Happy, maybe? It was hard to tell, but he did love her. He'd known it for a while, and now he knew for certain that she loved him too. As difficult as that was to comprehend for him. Happy would be the right word, but after so long, happiness was difficult to identify. Difficult to indulge in, too.

"She reciprocates." He said it with a rise in tone that sounded like surprise, but he wasn't surprised, not truly.

_"How do you feel about that?"_

"Good. I think."

Robert shifted in his chair. It creaked under him.

_"You think?"_

"I really like her. And she really likes me, and I feel good about that, it's a _good _thing..."

_"But?"_

_But. _Why a but?

"I don't know. Maybe I feel like I don't deserve it."

Robert tilted his head to one side, contemplating. Just in the bottom of the screen Din could make out the motion of tapping a pen against a table.

_"Do you know why you feel that way?"_

The people he'd killed. How many were just following orders?

"Yes."

How many troopers didn't have a choice? How many were like Peri, taken from their home? Did they have names? Families? Wants? Desires? How many Imperials actually believed what they preached, how much of it was brainwashing?

How many innocent lives had he taken?

Robert hummed, his eyes fell to the table. _"Do you want to talk about it?"_

"No."

_"That's alright."_

Butterscotch walked in through his ajar door, silently jumping up onto the bed and curling up in Din's lap.

"I don't feel like talking," Din mumbled. "If that's okay, I just... want to sit here."

_"Of course that's okay, Din. If you change your mind, I will be here until our time is up."_  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


6th April, 2020

"Din...?"

He looked up from his book - Harry Potter, thought he'd try it - at Omera, who was looking down at him in a strange sort of way. The uncertain tone in her voice was enough to make him worried already.

"I don't know how to phrase this." She bit her lip. "I have been looking for, for, hum, _lady _things, but I don't believe Pedro has any in his house."

He frowned, furrowed his eyebrows, before finally it dawned on him, and his mouth formed an 'o'.

"A-Ah, well- yes, he wouldn't, since- oh, how urgent-?"

She glanced around to ensure no one else was present, and no one was. "Not very."

"Well," Din bit his lip. "Well, maybe I could call someone. I don't have any credits, or I'd get the supplies myself. is there anything you can use temporarily?"

"The tissue paper works well enough, for now..."

"Okay. Okay." He pulled out his phone and brought up Pedro's contact. "I can ask Pedro. Maybe he can contact Jon." _Since I don't want to._

Omera waited beside him, patiently, as he dialled the number.

_"Hey, what's up?"_

"Pedro." Din sighed at the sound of the voice, a sense of relief rushing over him. Apparently, he'd been missing him more than he initially thought. "Omera was looking for... monthly cycle stuff. But there isn't anything..."

_"Oh! Oh, shit, why didn't I think of that?"_

He heard the sound of shuffling sheets and realised Pedro must be in bed. It was only six in the afternoon for him... an early night, perhaps.

_"Okay. Alright, what I might do is text Jon to bring some stuff over. That a'ight?"_

"That would be fine."

_"Perfect. Hey, before you go- how's it?"_

Din glanced up at Omera, whose gaze was now focused very intently on the coffee table, apparently now staring into space.

"It's quiet," he said. "Not a lot going on."

_"Better than a lot going on, I guess. Hopefully when I come back that won't change!"_

Somehow, Din felt that Pedro may have just jinxed it.

_"But I should go. Jon should pop around soon."_

"Yeah, alright. Thank you."

_"See you! Goodnight!"_

The call ended. Din stuffed his phone back into his pocket and turned to Omera, who was looking at him expectantly.

"He said he was going to have Jon drop off the supplies, so..."

"Who's Jon?" she hummed.

"A... work colleague, of his." _Right. Shit. She still doesn't know._

They waited on the couch, Omera shifting her position every now then, growing uncomfortable. Din didn't much understand periods, but he knew enough to understand how uncomfortable it had to be. Finally, the doorbell rang, and Din went to collect the supplies from him. There was a lot more than he'd been expecting, including a hot water bottle. Din took the bag from him, bidding him thanks, then goodbye, and closing the door again.

"I'm not sure how it works." Din gave the heavy plastic bag to Omera, who took it gratefully. "There might be instructions."

"Thank you." She fished through the bag, unloading the things onto the coffee table, laying them out neatly. Several packages of what he could only assume were for protecting the under-clothes. She stared quizzically at the hot water bottle. Din only shrugged, about as clueless as she was. She left them on the table and disappeared into the refresher.

Not as awkward as he'd thought it'd be. After the initial shock, it was fine. He felt good about that, he decided.

* * *

7th April, 2020

"Omera?"

He shook her shoulder lightly, and in response, there was a soft, resigned groan.

"Omera? Are you okay?"

He'd just woken up, and really he'd been considering going back to sleep, but then he'd noticed her position in the bed, curled into a ball and breathing deeply like she was in pain, and now there was no way he was going to rest.

"Mmgh," she groaned. "Hurt."

"Hurt? What hurts?"

"Cramp."

She curled further in on herself, tugging the duvet with her and leaving Din mostly uncovered. He slid out of the bed and rounded to the other side, kneeling down on the floor.

"You've got a cramp? Where?"

Her eyes cracked open slightly, and she stared at him under a mess of tangled hair that she hadn't tied up the night before. She looked... she looked positively miserable, and it made Din's heart _ache_. He reached out, offering his hand, and though it took a moment, she eventually took it and squeezed it hard.

"Ev'ry month," she mumbled into the pillow. "Cramps."

"Oh."

He didn't know about that. Perhaps he should have done more research. It made sense, that periods would cause cramps, she was _bleeding _after all, but what could help? There was pain medication, panadol, but they were large pills and he didn't think Omera had ever taken pills before. What helped with cramps? Think, think, think... heat. Heat helped... the hot water bottle!

He gave her hand one last squeeze, then stood to grab the hot water bottle from downstairs.

It sat next to the kettle. He'd put it there before going to bed, not wanting Butterscotch to claw into it and render it useless. He turned on the kettle, and waited for it to boil, then finally pouring it into the bottle. Checked it wasn't too hot, waited a little while, then took it back up to Omera.

"This might help." Din held out the bottle for her. She took it hesitantly, but upon feeling its warmth she immediately buried it under the covers and pressed it against her abdomen, releasing a sigh of relief.

"Better?"

"Mm. Stay?"

"Yeah. I'll stay."

He wasn't about to object to that.

* * *

8th April, 2020

By the time the next day arrived, her cramps were already gone, and for this, Din was incredibly grateful. Seeing her in pain, hearing her groans, he _hated _it. Knowing there wasn't anything to do but wait. He did offer the medication in the end, but she refused, insisted that she'd dealt with it for decades, she could deal with one more night. Hardly left the bed at all except to change out the sanitary products.

Ate dinner in bed, but didn't get through all of it. She finally began to feel better, she said, about midway through the night, when Din had apparently already fallen asleep.

She was feeling better physically. This was good, Din was glad. The problem now lay in... her emotions. A mixture of weepy and perpetually mad. Either she was sitting around looking glum or going about with an angry frown. No one said anything about it, no one dared to. Din had seen her in the battle for Sorgan. She was truly scary when she was mad, so it would be wise not to cross paths.

He figured it would be hormonal. So he couldn't blame her for it. With everything going on, how could he? They'd wait it out.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"I'm sorry."

He heard the bedsheets shift as Omera rolled over. Din opened his eyes, mildly annoyed that she'd just interrupted what was about to be a very good rest, but the feeling dissipated as soon as he saw those sad teary eyes staring out at him.

"What for?"

"I was truly sour today."

"You didn't cuss anyone out, so it's fine." _Not helping. _"I mean, you're not to blame. It's hormonal."

"Yes, but..." she sighed. "This week has been good. I don't want to be the one to ruin that."

"You haven't. It's okay."

"Ridiculous hormones."

She cuddled up close to him, warm. Winta's breathing could be heard on the other side of the room, as there were no strong winds to interrupt the quiet.

Peace. Quiet. It was calm. So why did he feel an impending sense of doom? Some part of his mind saying _it won't last forever._

The calm before the storm.

It was nothing. He knew it was nothing, his fear was irrational, and when he reassured himself of this he felt better, but then the thoughts would return later with whispers of _if something is coming, you won't be prepared._

_Don't live in the future, Din. _Robert's voice cut through his thoughts. _Focus on here and now. Be equipped for what might come, yes, but do not let your mind consume you._

He was trying. He really was.  
  


* * *

  
  


9th April, 2020

Omera was gone when he woke up. When he checked the time...

_Midday._

How had he slept so long? By habit, he was always awake at least by eight.

He didn't get up, though. Didn't wantto get up. He'd lie there for all eternity, if he could. Everything felt heavy. Wasn't hungry, either. Why? He didn't care. Just wanted to sleep.

He woke up again an hour later. No thoughts, just tired. Warmth of his bed, he didn't want to leave it, _couldn't _leave it. The window was open. It wasn't open before. What was that? A glass of water by his bedside, not there earlier. He drank it, but he was still tired.

He woke again at six. A weight pressing down on his bed, but it wasn't Omera. When he opened his eyes, he saw Peri sitting on the edge.

"Hello," Peri said quietly. "Omera is worried."

Din buried half his face in his pillow. "I'm fine," he said.

"I know. But if I didn't check then she'd have thrown something. 'You're a doctor', she said... 'make sure he's okay!' "

_I worried her. I'm sorry, I just wanted to sleep._

"Don't look like that," Peri grumbled. "It's not your fault."

"I made her worry."

"She'll stop worrying if you go downstairs and eat dinner. But... I would understand if you'd prefer to keep sleeping."

Tempting. So tempting. Not hungry, just tired.

Peri handed him another glass of water. He sat up, drank it.

"I'm tired," said Din.

"Then rest."

He looked up at Peri, staring at the rim of his glasses. "Surely sleeping all day isn't normal."

"It's normal for people like us."

_Depressed people, you mean?_

The weight in the bed shifted as Peri stood from it, stretching his arms above his head. "Rest. I'll tell Omera that you're alright." He paused at the exit, his hand lingering on the door handle. Turned around, hesitated.

"Can I call you 'Din' ?"

Oh.

"You called me by my proper name," he continued. "So I wanted to return the favour. But, if you don't want... I mean-"

"It's fine."

Peri swallowed harshly, then nodded. "Thank you. I suppose..." he took a deep breath. "I suppose perhaps we can start over, then. Forget everything else ever happened?"

"Sounds good to me."

Peri approached again, holding out a hand. "Hello. I'm Dr. Peri Pershing. I definitely most certainly wasn't an Imperial."

Din shook it. "I'm Din Djarin. I definitely didn't threaten your life twice in one month."

"Well met."

"Well met."

Peri moved back toward the door, bowing subtly in the exit. "Sleep well." He left.

Din felt a bit better, now. Just a bit.

* * *

10th April, 2020

The car rolled up in the driveway. Edgar was already scratching at the door before Pedro had a chance to pull out his keys. When the door swung open the dog wasted no time jumping on him, barking loud without a care.

"Edgar! Sí, hola, hola-" Pedro scratched behind his ears, continuing to speak in Spanish. Din waited, by Omera's side, with Butterscotch in his arms.

Finally Pedro stood up straight, and at the sight of them, he grinned broadly.

"You're alive! The house still stands!" he exclaimed.

"No fires. No explosions." Din let Butterscotch drop to the floor and allowed himself to be embraced by Pedro.

"You're okay, hermano?"

"I'm okay. We're okay."

Pedro pulled back from the hug. "Good. Brilliant. I'm okay too, the holiday was exactly what I needed. For now, though... I think I might collapse for a bit."

"You and me both."

There was that light, in his eyes. One he hadn't seen since... since they met. That childish glee. His entire face lit up. How long would it last?

_Live in the moment, _Robert's words echoed in his head.

_Okay. Okay I will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> submit commissions to support me on [ fiverr!!! ](https://www.fiverr.com/share/mYmx8V)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)


	41. before the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think that you're worth keeping around  
I think that you're worth holding onto
> 
> It's gonna hurt like hell  
But we're gonna be well  
I'll give you my best shot

11th April, 2020

It was noon. Probably. He hadn't been checking the clock, but the sun was high in the sky. And everything felt... fine. In fact, everything had felt good, so- he'd been expecting it, in a way.

Things were too good. Edgar and Butterscotch sleeping on the same chair. Winta drawing on some spare paper, Omera and Din talking quietly amongst themselves on the couch and Pershing reading a book at the dining table.

It was peaceful. Too damn peaceful. So Pedro wasn't surprised by the knocking on the front door. Slow. Weak. Omera ushered Winta upstairs in hushed whispers, Din jumped to his feet, and everyone stared in wait as Pedro pulled the door open. They all knew.

Dark, blue eyes stared down at him. Ones he recognised, a bit too well, but he could hardly recognise the face they belonged to. Rugged, beads of sweat coating his forehead. Matted hair had grown thicker, patchy stubble lining his jaw. Deep bags accentuating puffy red-rimmed eyes. A thick jacket, but it did nothing to hide the ugly yellow and blue bruises creeping onto his hands, his neck, nor how sickly thin he was.

"They took her."

He trembled as he spoke. A frightful rasp in his voice, barely above a whisper.

"They took both of them."

Pedro's clutch on the door tightened.

He wanted to slam it in his face. Wanted to leave him outside in the freezing cold. Wanted to let him beg, and give _nothing _in return. He almost did. Some horrible part in him almost shoved that door closed and locked it.

"I'll make soup." He left the door open. Made a beeline for the kitchen, almost ran head-on into Pershing along the way, who was wide-eyed and red in the face.

Pedro didn't turn around, not even when he heard a sharp slap and a heavy thud. Nor when he heard yelling followed by soft crying. He simply poured the canned soup into a bowl and shoved it into the microwave.

By the time it finished everything had fallen silent, except for the ragged muted sobs that escaped Christopher.

He waited for the soup to cool before grabbing it and turning around. Truthfully he didn't entirely know how long he'd simply stood there, no thoughts crossing in mind, almost a meditative state. It would've been peaceful.

He took a moment to take in the scene before him. Christopher on the floor, his back pressed against the wall just beside the front door with his left hand raised to his cheek. Peri stood over him, shaking, in a mixture of anger and shock. Din sat thoughtfully on the couch and Omera was nowhere to be seen.

"Chris," Pedro said. "Get up. You need to eat."

Christopher looked up, his hand still firmly pressed against his cheek, a violent red mark peeking through it.

"Get up," Pedro repeated firmly.

Another few seconds passed. Pershing stood back, his eyes fixed on the floor. Finally, Chris began to move, slowly. He stood on two shaky legs, using the wall to keep himself upright. His hand dropped to his side revealing the hand-shaped mark underneath, accompanied by a thin bleeding cut where one of Pershing's nails had made contact.

Chris stumbled toward the couch. Barely made it in time before he fell, collapsing onto the cushions. Weak, unsteady. Pedro leaned over to hand him the soup and he took it with a trembling right hand, then picked up the spoon with his left.

Left-handed.

Hadn't noticed.

"Eat," Pedro said. "You look like a corpse."

Chris scoffed lightly, but it lacked any emotion. "I feel like one," he rasped, still with that awful tremble plaguing his voice.

Slowly he rose the spoon to his lips and took a sip of the soup. His eyes slid closed as he swallowed, and there was tense silence before they opened again and he took another spoonful. 

Satisfied, Pedro moved back to the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and rummaged through it. The thermometer sat on top of a box, just where he'd left it last time. He took it over to Christopher and, without warning, stuck it in his ear.

"What are you-?"

"Shh."

It beeped and he pulled it out, ignoring Christopher's baffled expression, and checked the numbers on the thermometer.

_105_ _._

"How opposed are you to going to the hospital?"

"Very."

"Okay. Then you're staying here until your fever breaks. Finish your soup, then you can sleep in my bed."

He ignored the sounds of protest from both Christopher and Din and took to his bedroom, where he lay down and took a well-deserved nap.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


He wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed, but nothing had blown up, so... couldn't have been too long. Half an hour, at least. An hour at most. But he felt better. Rested. The thoughts in his head were just that little bit more cohesive.

The now-empty soup bowl rested on the kitchen counter, just beside the sink.

"Where's Christopher?"

Peri looked up briefly from the couch, only to stare back down at his lap. "Said he needed fresh air. I think he's in the backyard."

Resisting the urge to bite his lip, Pedro walked to the sliding door that led outside. It was still open, just enough for someone like Christopher to squeeze through. As silently as he could he stepped out of the house onto the wooden deck.

Christopher wasn't seated on the chair overlooking the rest of the yard, but rather sitting cross-legged over on the grass, with some kind of small notebook in his hand. Small enough to fit into a back pocket. On closer inspection, Pedro saw he had earbuds in, which were connected to a cheap phone lying face down on his leg.

He held a pencil in his left hand, the notebook in his right. Pedro stepped closer, not bothering to remain silent now as he knew now that Christopher couldn't hear him anyway. He approached close enough to be able to peer over Chris' shoulder and see what he was doing.

It was a sketch, a messy sketch of a woman he didn't recognise. Somehow familiar, though he couldn't put a name to the face...

He sat down next to Christopher. Only then was his presence noticed, and the man pulled out his earplugs and stared at Pedro expectantly.

"That's a nice drawing," Pedro said, not sure what else to say.

Chris only hummed and turned back to look at the drawing. It was quite impressively realistic, given the little space he had to work with.

"Who is she?" Pedro prompted. Chris sighed.

"My sister."

Right. That was why she looked familiar, then.

"She's pretty."

"Yeah. I wish I'd told her."

Pedro furrowed his eyebrows. "Told her?"

"That she's pretty." He used the other end of the pencil to erase a section of her hair. "She wore so much makeup. Had scars from a bad relationship, and she hated them."

As he said this, he flipped the pencil around again and began to carefully draw a thin line across her face. From her cheekbone down to below her bottom lip.

"James told her," he continued. "My parents told her. But I didn't."

"James?"

"My brother. Twin brother, but... we're not identical. You know..." he closed the book carefully. "If time hasn't passed over there in the same way it has here, and then if I go back, I'll have aged."

He looked over at Pedro.

"And they wouldn't have. I dunno. Just something I been thinkin' about."

He opened the book up again, but it flipped to a different page than before. A sketch of Ivana, shoulders and up, with her eyes closed and a soft smile. Christopher's expression was blank, but Pedro knew it didn't reflect how he was really feeling. He wondered, briefly, how much he'd practised hiding his emotions.

"Ivana's pregnant."

...Pedro was sure, that, had he been holding anything, he would have dropped it. _That, _he had not been expecting. Some part of him questioned if he imagined it, that wouldn't surprise him, with everything going on; what're some auditory hallucinations? But he didn't imagine it.

"Should- should I congratulate you?"

Christopher shrugged and waved his hand dismissively. Didn't need to elaborate.

Pedro decided to ask a different question.

"How far along...?"

"I dunno. Only found out 'bout a month ago." He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the fence to the left of him. "It doesn't matter. We're going to lose it anyway."

So certain. He supposed it made sense. In his position... could you really afford to hold out hope for something like that?

Christopher sniffed. When he spoke again his voice sounded strained. "Even if we don't, we can't raise a kid. Not here. Not like this." He ducked his head and cleared his throat. Only when his breathing evened out did he finally look up again. "Sorry."

Apologising, like Din used to. Sometimes Pedro felt they were the same person. But Din was getting better, now. Chris was... complicated. Just like Pershing had said. A "complicated man".

"Why'd he slap you?" Pedro asked.

Just like so many times before, Christopher's eyes slid closed. The exhaustion weighed down so heavily on him that you could physically see it, in the way his shoulders sagged and his head nodded.

" 'S been a while," he slurred. "Since we talked. He was- he was messagin' me and I wasn't responding."

"You ignored him?" Pedro asked. "How long for?"

"I dunno."

It was quite obvious that he did know, but Pedro didn't prod for answers, so they were in silence. For a while, it almost felt peaceful. The quiet was good, he liked the quiet. Which was funny, because, well, he certainly didn't use to. So much had changed, in such a short amount of time. How long, now? Had to be nearing four months. Not even half a year yet, since the beginning of it all.

He'd just got back from a damn holiday... Christ, he'd jinxed it, hadn't he? On the phone to Din, he'd said, hopefully, the peace and quiet wouldn't change when he got back. Well, it fucking changed.

Pitiful.

The door behind them slid open. Pershing stepped out, clutching his phone tightly in his hand. Perhaps he'd been texting Asher. He approached and sat opposite them.

"Tell me what happened," he said.

Chris looked up at him, in a sad, pity-filled way. Cleared his throat, took a deep breath and began to talk.

"I was asleep. And I heard something. I guess I, I didn't wake up straight away? Because I remember thinking about it in my dream." He exhaled shakily, trembling. "But then I did wake up. There was- there was yelling. So much yelling, and I didn't really register it at first, but it was Ivana, and Samantha was yelling too, I could hear fighting. So, so I grabbed," another deep breath, "my gun, and I ran to it, and there were these, these people, that I'd never seen before."

He stopped to swallow. It sounded painful.

"I tried to chase their car. I was too slow," he rasped. "They took them. I don't know how long..."

"Three weeks," Pershing mumbled. "That's when you stopped replying."

"...right. Right."

Three weeks. _Three weeks._

"Three weeks and you didn't think to come to us for help?" Pedro crossed his arms over his chest.

Three weeks! What was happening three weeks ago? Pershing had his date on the 20th. Two days later, he had the optometrist appointment, and it was during that time he started to act strange... Subtle, at first, but...

It must have occurred in that time frame, because Pedro messaged Chris on the 20th and received a response.

"I didn't think you'd care."

Pedro blinked. The words were quiet, hesitant, almost afraid. Christopher avoided his gaze, staring down at his hands, which were fiddling with a piece of worn fabric that must have been in his pocket.

"Of course I care. And, even if I didn't, _Pershing _bloody well does!"

Chris tugged and pulled at the fabric. He almost seemed fixated on it, as he didn't respond at all. Had he not heard?

"Chris?"

"He's not listening," Pershing mumbled. "Just, just give him a moment."

"What's he doing?"

"He likes the texture. It helps him."

Strangely mesmerising in the methodical way he fiddled with the fabric. There was a pattern to it; tug, feel, fold, unfold, and repeat. Swapping it from hand to hand like a game of hot potato.

They sat and watched, for goodness knows how long, until finally it stopped, and he lay the fabric gently out on his leg. It was worn and torn with age. One could imagine he'd had it since he was a child. Perhaps it was once a blanket.

"Chris?" Pedro tried again. He looked up, appearing calmer, or even relaxed. The fabric really did help.

"Sorry," he sniffled. "Did you say something?"

"I was just saying that I _do _care."

Christopher stared at him, looking strangely baffled. "Why?"

"Who do you take me for?"

"Right. Right, sorry." He ducked his head again, to his chest, hiding his expression.

So... they'd been kidnapped. Christ, no wonder he was so goddamn distraught.

"What about the police, then? Why not call them?"

Chris gave him a look that questioned his intelligence, yet Pedro couldn't find it within himself to be offended.

"It's my assumption that these people are working _for_ the police. And even if they're not," he shook his head, "I can't risk getting involved with them."

"Why not?"

"I have done far worse than hurt your shoulder."

Christopher recoiled almost immediately but didn't try to backtrack. He instead hugged his own arms protectively, glaring over at the far fence.

"Ivana would've slapped me for that," he sighed.

Pedro couldn't bring himself to be angry, either. Despite having every right. He just couldn't.

The shoulder never hurt anymore. It didn't twitch either. Most days, he forgot about it, only reminded when he saw the scar in the mirror just before a shower. Just a small thing, round and indented. One could mistake it for a birthmark from enough of a distance. He was... very lucky, that it no longer bothered him.

"She would have been right to," came the familiar growl of Din's voice from behind them.

Chris looked over, frowning and glaring, but didn't say a word. He didn't need to, his expressions spoke half the time more than his mouth ever did.

"We should go inside," said Pedro. "It's cold out here."

When they arrived back in the loungeroom, Omera and Winta had just landed at the bottom of the stairs, clutching each other's hand tightly, both uncertain and afraid. Omera ushered Winta outside, whispering to her, but she instead beelined for Edgar on the chair. She scooped the half-asleep dog up with ease and carried him to the backyard.

Omera stood at the bottom of the stairway. She didn't turn around until the door to the yard was closed.

"What's going on?" she demanded. Scared, but barely a waver in her voice.

Din stood next to her. He grasped her hand. Well, that was new.

"Omera, this is..." Din gestured to Chris, on the couch. "Christopher."

Omera's eyes widened. Her mouth formed an 'o' shape. But she didn't look frightened, just surprised. Perhaps, based on what she'd been told, she'd been expecting someone more intimidating than the sickly teary-eyed man now trembling on the couch.

"Hi," Chris said, pointedly keeping his gaze away from her and on the floor.

"So what's going on, then?" Omera asked again, softer this time. "Has something happened?"

"You could say that," Pedro muttered to himself.

Taken.

Kidnapped. Gone. For some reason he just... he couldn't wrap his head around it. The concept that, that this sort of thing happened, to people that he _knew, _people that he cared about - and yes, he bloody well cared about them. But the fact that it happened, was so surreal. So beyond anything. It was horrifying.

More than anything, he could not begin to imagine how terrified Christopher was.

"...going to do?"

Omera had been talking. Must've zoned out.

"I don't know."

Were they dead already? It was a real possibility. A horrifyingly real possibility. What if they were? _What happens then?_

He'd let Chris stay with them. That's what he would do. And then... then keep a close eye on him.

Pedro's thoughts strayed. People around him were talking, talking about important things, but he didn't listen.

Christopher had already admitted to, to having thoughts, self-destructive thoughts. If she was gone, it- it wouldn't be difficult to imagine him going through with it.

Pedro wasn't religious. But if need be, he'd pray. For her. For him. For Sam, too.

"...could help."

He was pulled very suddenly out of his thoughts by Din's voice. Something he said, what did he say? What did he say?

"No." Christopher shook his head. "No, no. I couldn't- no."

"I'm offering."

"_And I'm_ _declining_."

"Wha's going on?" Pedro cut in. All heads turned to face him, and he felt suddenly uncomfortable. Omera looked fearful and angry. She spoke first.

"Din wants to help get them back."

Oh. _Oh. _Dangerous. So dangerous, but- if anyone could do it. If it was anyone...

"These people are deadly," Christopher hissed. "I can't let you risk your-"

"If you go alone, you'll be killed." Din stepped forward.

Chris ran a hand through his hair, combing through the knots. He was frightened, so scared, but trying to hide it. Trying so hard to be strong, but so scared. Pedro wished again, not for the last time, that he couldn't read body language.

You couldn't _not _pity him. As much as he wished he could punch something, with all the tension in his shoulders, his jaw, the angry pressure headache, the pity was too much. Too much.

"Well, well maybe that's just something I have to live with."

Why couldn't he just have a nice, relaxing day?

It was fun, with his family. _That _was relaxing. But the damn second he gets back... God. He'd call his brother after this. Maybe that'd help.

"No, you won't be living with anything, that's the point."

Christopher leapt up from the couch, glowering with clenched fists, looked angry but _felt _terrified. Pedro took a subconscious step back. "The fuck d'you care for?!" he yelled. "You don't! You never-"

"Christopher, calm down."

Pershing had been quiet. Very quiet, had hardly spoken a word until just then. Chris looked at him, the anger melting away, and sank slowly back down into the couch.

No one else said a word. Not even Din, whose scowl could kill a man. Pershing sat down next to Christopher, he placed one hand on his knee. Spoke quietly to him in Bulgarian. It sounded sad, Pedro didn't need to understand their words to know it was sad. Their expressions, the tone. The words themselves bore an unbearable weight. Heavy.

It felt like grief.

Christopher leaned his forehead against the palms of his hands, bent over his knees, his fingers intertwined in his knotted hair. Out of the corner of his eye, Pedro saw Omera pull Din aside, and begin to whisper to him, quiet enough for only them to hear.

Surrounded by secret conversations, Pedro decided to go upstairs, once again, to his bedroom. He'd make the bed ready for Christopher. Needed to put covers on the duvet.

He did so, sluggishly. It hurt his back, it always did, but somehow this time he found he didn't much mind. When he was done he threw the duvet over the bed.

He didn't want to go back down yet. But it wasn't like there was anything else to do. Sleep, maybe? He'd already slept. But the exhaustion was back at him, eating away at him, at his mind, his body...

He pulled out his phone.

Needed a distraction.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


It was quiet when he came back down. Too quiet. Din and Omera were outside, he could see them, sitting on the steps while Winta played fetch with Edgar. Pershing remained indoors, on the couch. At first, all Pedro saw was the back of his head, and he was about to ask where Christopher was when he rounded the corner and saw it.

Chris was asleep. Fast asleep, breathing deep and slow, with his head in Pershing's lap. He was running his hands through his hair, combing out the knots, slowly, deliberately.

"Just sort of happened," Pershing explained, turning a deep shade of crimson. "He was so tired, he said, hadn't slept in days."

If it weren't for the feverish shine, he would have looked peaceful, in his deep rest. Pershing pushed some of the hair back behind his ear, exposing the thin cut over his cheek. The red hand mark was gone, now, and instead replaced with the beginnings of a dark bruise.

"I'd never slapped anyone before. I didn't think that it would be him. I was just so, so angry. I felt-"

"Betrayed?"

Pershing considered this, then nodded. He looked down at Chris again, now running a finger over the edge of his jaw.

"Is he okay with letting you do that...?" Pedro asked, sitting down on the opposite couch. A nod.

"He says it's nice. Sometimes he can't sleep without it, so, so he lets me. Or used to. Before I left." He tilted his head to one side, gently drawing small shapes on Chris' forehead with one finger.

"Do you regret leaving?"

"Hm."

Comfortable silence as Pershing thought this through, now back to combing through Chris' hair. It was shiny, oily. Probably hadn't showered.

"I did, at first. Very much. I missed them. I wanted to go back, back to what I considered home, I suppose. But I don't regret it anymore."

"No?"

"I _gained_ _weight_ this week. I wouldn't give that up for anything. Not even him."

_You still like him, don't you?_

Pedro didn't voice it.

Christoper's head turned onto its side, facing Pershing. A deep, quiet inhale. 

"Can we move him to my bed?" Now he didn't need to do the convincing part - he'd had a whole speech and everything - if Chris had already fallen asleep.

"I... suppose," Pershing said, with some degree of disappointment.

_You have Asher now. This needs to stop._

"Maybe I can carry him. He looks light enough." Pedro stood from his seat, not feeling certain he could carry him at all, but willing to at least _try... _since, very likely, the only person capable of carrying a 6'4 man wouldn't exactly pleased with the task.

Pershing lifted Christopher off his lap and stepped back for Pedro to attempt to pick him up. He scooped one arm under his legs, and the other under his arms. With all his strength, and pushing through the back pain, he lifted Chris off the couch.

Not as light as expected, but not as heavy, either. Not as heavy as he _should _have been, rather.

With a surprising amount of ease, Pedro carried Christopher out of the lounge and up the stairs to his bedroom, Pershing trailing not too far behind. When he arrived he had to resist the urge to simply drop Chris onto the bed, and instead, lowered him down carefully, then pulled off his shoes. Pershing dragged the covers over his shoulders then stepped back with a sad expression on his face.

"He'll be confused when he wakes up," he said. "Maybe I should stay."

"No." Pedro shook his head. "I need to talk to you. Come downstairs."

Pershing cast a longing look at Chris, who had now rolled over onto his side, his legs pulled to his chest in a fetal position. He _did_ look peaceful, now. Under the heavy covers, his head on the pillow. With the blinds closed and the light off, the shimmer of feverish sweat was no longer so apparent and you wouldn't have guessed he was sick at all.

"Okay," Pershing sniffled. He didn't pause at the door, but it was clear that he thought about it.

Back in the loungeroom, Pershing sat where he'd been just before and so did Pedro.

"He ignored you, then? He said that's why you slapped him."

A nod. Just that, a nod. Nothing more, nothing less. Apparently not in the mood for talking, then.

"D'you know why? Did he explain?"

Silence. Then a subtle shake of the head, saying; _no, he didn't. _His hand came up to wipe his eyes, to hardly any avail. He audibly sniffed.

"Three weeks, right?" Pedro continued.

Another nod, then a deep, shuddering breath.

"I thought he'd died."

It was so quiet that for a moment, Pedro was convinced he'd imagined it. But he hadn't.

"I thought..." Pershing continued, voice strained, "after the first week, I thought, I thought that something happened, that he did something stupid, and-" another breath. "Or that his sickness won, or that he'd starved, or-"

He buried his face in the palms of his hands. There was only a brief pause before his whole body began to tremble. He became wracked with choked sobs, his chest heaving up and down with failed attempts to catch his breath.

Pedro sat next to him, and waited. It was all he could do. He would wait. Listen.

How long had he been silently grieving? Truly believing one of his closest friends was dead? And why hadn't he said anything, why hadn't he shared his concerns, his worries, did he not trust them? Maybe he didn't. The notion stung. It didn't matter, now, though. Christopher was alive. He would _continue_ to be alive, fate or whatever be damned.

It took half an hour for Pershing to quiet down. In all that time Pedro sat next to him, patient. Waiting. At some point he began to run his hand up and down his back, absent-mindedly, not really thinking about it, lost in his own thoughts and waiting for the sobs to stop.

Did Chris not know the effect his absence would have? Or did he simply not care?

Pershing leaned to the side and rested his head on Pedro's shoulder. Sniffling, still crying, but quiet.

"I'm sorry," he sniffled. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for." Pedro ruffled Pershing's hair with his hand. "I just wish you'd said something about this, I guess."

Another loud sniff, then echoed Christopher's words from before:

"I didn't think you'd care."

Pedro reached over. He pulled Pershing into a tight hug.

"I do care. I do."

The unrelenting sobbing started all over again.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Above it all, she was all he could think about. After everything, she was the only one on his mind. And now she was gone, and he could not function.

That was a lie.

He could function. He functioned very well, just not in the ways that he needed to. When was the last time he slept? Showered? Ate anything other than some cheap muesli bar? But when it came to work, he functioned. Like a switch in his brain, click. That was when he functioned.

All those fucking phone calls. All those people he thought, maybe, just maybe, they cared enough to help. Even if they did, they were scared. They had every right to be, it was so beyond them, so beyond everyone, beyond humanity and its grievances, how could you possibly deal with something like this?

Now he was alone. And she was gone.

Her arm draped over his shoulder. Or her legs in his lap, or her arms around his waist. In bed, or on the couch, or walking hand-in-hand in the streets. Her shoulder pressed against his.

She got him through it all, in the end. And he knew, somehow, that he was the reason she got through it all, too.

Now she was gone. They were both alone.

He still remembered the screams. Waking up, alarms shrieking in his mind, her screaming, screaming for _him, _his name, and he was too slow. She was taken, and it was his fault.

And Sam. Oh, Samantha. Naive, stupid girl, why her, too? Why take her?

Despite how much he hated her, he still cared.

He woke up in a bed that wasn't his own. He knew it was wrong before he even opened his eyes. His mattress was on the floor. This was a bed. With warm, heavy covers, and soft pillows.

Perhaps it had all been a nightmare. A decade-long nightmare, and he was about to open his eyes in his own bed, in his own flat, in London. He snapped his eyes open. It was pitch black, could hardly see a thing beyond his own hand. Far too quickly he scrambled from the bed, his bare feet hitting the soft carpet beneath him. Was it true? Was he home? He flung himself at the wall, searching for the light switch. He found it. He flipped it down. The room lit up, he whipped around to face the room...

Didn't recognise it. Not at all. It had cream-coloured walls and a light brown carpet. _His _room was decorated in blues, purples, fairy lights to match the neon city beyond his window. This was not his room.

Not a nightmare. If he had to guess... he had been carried from the couch in the lounge, to one of the upstairs bedrooms.

It was pitch black outside. He cast a glance at the digital alarm clock, and it read, in blaring red lettering, 5:00.

5 am.

The sun would be rising, soon.

Perhaps he'd simply go back to sleep.

If anything, it was a temporary escape.

And by God, with the adrenaline gone, he was so fucking tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> submit commissions to support me on [ fiverr!!! ](https://www.fiverr.com/share/mYmx8V)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/5zAZUKd) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)


	42. the eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When did I last breathe in  
Am I empty again  
Oh, that wind that I've been spending  
Is a long one my friend

12th April, 2020

Only three hours had passed when he woke up again. The early morning sunlight was just barely peeking through the blinds, shining ever so subtly on the wall and the bed. It shone in just the right spot, however, for the light to be immediately in his eye. He rolled over, fully intending to go back to sleep, but... something stopped him. He squinted up at the alarm clock. 8am.

Too early. Could sleep the whole rest of the day, if he really wanted to, but...

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his back pressed against the headboard. A headache. Already, a headache. Pounding behind his forehead. Screaming at him for daring to do anything but sleep, sleep, sleep, for the love of god, sleep...

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Willed the headache to go away. It didn't. It would remain, for the rest of the day, he imagined. Until he could sleep again.

His legs felt heavy. So did his arms, and his head, but he pushed himself up off the bed anyway. Whose room was he in? It had to be Pascal's. He'd said Chris could take his bed earlier, hadn't he? Christ, the man was too kind for his own good.

Christopher paused before the door, his hand resting on the handle. Was it too early? Would no one else be awake? Maybe Peri would be, but he didn't- he didn't want to face Peri. Not yet.

He felt the cut on his cheek. It still stung. Physically, yes, but... emotionally, for the most part.

He fucked up. He knew he fucked up. From the moment he saw his phone light up with those messages, he knew, from then, that he'd fucked up. Didn't respond. _Couldn't _respond, needed to protect him, how else was he_ supposed_ to protect him, they took Ivana and they took Sam because he _cared _and if they knew how much he cared about Peri then they would _take him too._

What was he supposed to do? With a bugged phone, and those bastards watching his every move? Waiting, waiting for him, to fall for their bait.

They knew he was trying to gather help. They also knew that he wouldn't get it, so of course, of course, they wouldn't care. But contacting Peri... he couldn't risk that.

He couldn't. He couldn't. Not him. Couldn't risk losing him.

It was strange. Caring for someone so much. Someone like him, someone like Peri.

A man in the alley. Cold. Dying. Took him in, gave him food, clothes, shelter...

He didn't expect to get attached. He never wanted to, but Peri latched on to him like a child and suddenly, suddenly...

At first, he'd thought he'd fallen in love. Mistook the caring for something else. Naive, looking back on it. It was just- he'd never _cared, _so much, in this way, for anyone other than Ivana. And his family.

Risking Peri's safety... he couldn't. Not then, not now, not ever. That bullet, he remembered that bullet. It nearly took Peri away. Felt like so long ago... but he remembered it all. That gun, and then suddenly, on the ground, and the shot ringing out... Peri took the bullet.

For him. Why him? He couldn't understand it. He still didn't. _He loves you _his mind would say, and then he'd correct it; _he's in love with me. _He didn't understand that, either. _He'll move on, _he'd think, but then years go by...

Peri had someone else, now. Good. Good, finally, _he can stop wasting his love on me. _But that look, that look... _stop wasting your love on me, please, please, please._

_Your perception is warped. I'm not a good person. Why do you still love me?_

His legs hurt. Checked the clock again. Another hour had passed. Time to head downstairs, he supposed.

He didn't want to. Didn't want to face anyone, it wasn't fair, he just wanted to sleep, but, well. As the saying went. _Life isn't fair._

He turned the handle. The door opened with ease, and this somehow surprised him, like he'd been expecting resistance. But there was none. He stepped out into the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet.

He wanted to look over the railing, see who was downstairs, but he knew that the moment he saw anyone he would leave. Run, like a coward. So he forced his attention on the stairs themselves and began to walk down.

He used the railing to steady himself. Every step hurt, a deep ache. Halfway down, already exhausted.

He reached the bottom and rested his hand on the wall. Kept him upright.

He could feel the staring. Someone was there. When he turned to look, it was Peri. With a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a plate with toast in the other.

"Peri," Christopher rasped. His throat screamed at him for trying to speak, but he'd power through.

Peri did not respond. He was angry. Upset. Betrayed. He sat down at the dining table and ate his toast. Did not object when Chris sat opposite, but rather ignored him entirely.

"Peri, I'm sorry."

"A wise man once told me that sorries don't fix anything. There's shards of a broken mug out there somewhere to prove it."

Peri stared directly into his eyes. Unwavering, unafraid. He took a sip of the coffee. Christopher's bottom lip began to tremble.

"Three weeks," said Peri. "Not a single word for three weeks."

"I couldn't, I-"

"I thought you were dead."

Chris snapped his mouth shut. That glare... piercing. Red in the face, angry. Not like the other times; no yelling, no screaming. A quiet rage.

Terrifying.

"I have no excuse," Chris mumbled. A lie. He had excuses. But what good would excuses do?

He hurt Peri. He. Him. His fault. _My fault._

But Peri paused. His eyebrows furrowed, he tilted his head to the side, ever so slightly, must have picked it up from Djarin.

"You always make excuses. Why is now any different?"

_Because I hurt you. Nothing can make up for it. _He shrugged. Peri hummed. Took another long, drawn out sip of coffee, then a small bite of toast.

"I gained weight this week," he said. Pride in his face. Temporary happiness.

"That's amazing," Chris breathed, and he meant it. He could see it, too, the subtle roundness in Peri's face, his cheeks. Looked good. Looked healthy.

Another hum, another bite of toast. Still angry. But hiding it. Forcing it away. Getting better at that. The bruise on his arm, gone.

Healing. In more ways than one.

Good.

Peri finished his toast. Time flew by, no talking. Chris waited. When he was done, he took one last sip of the coffee, and that was done, too.

Peri cleared his throat before speaking.

"They took her, then."

Inevitable. The conversation was inevitable. Despite this, despite knowing this, Chris could do nothing to stop the onslaught of dread, fear, anger, and grief. Oh, the grief. The grief was empty.

He nodded. "And Sam."

"And Sam."

He nodded again.

Peri stared down at his empty plate. Appeared to consider something.

"You should eat," he said. "Even if it's just cereal. I'll make you some cereal."

"I-"

"Don't get caught in a trap of- of feeling like an intruder, because that's what I did, and I fainted because of it. I'm going to make you something to eat."

That was that. Full stop. Peri left the table and made for the cupboard.

There was a dog under the table.

Christopher had noticed before and not paid it any mind. But now it was terribly close to his leg and he could feel it. Edgar stared up at him with wide eyes.

He liked dogs. Messy, yes, but they didn't attack him, and that was reason enough to like them.

He gave the dog a small wave, then focused his attention back on Peri, who was already marching over with the cereal in hand. He slid the bowl over the second he arrived at the table, and though Chris did hesitate, he was fucking hungry and didn't dare to waste too much time being mopey about it.

Food_. _God, food. Hungry, always hungry, not enough, never enough to eat, running low, desperate for work, too tired. Giving her his food. _For the baby, _he would say, knowing they would lose it anyway. She would insist, she would try to give him more food, he would push it away. _For the baby, _he would say again. They couldn't raise a kid... but still he would fight for its life.

When he was done, and it didn't take much time, Peri took the bowl to the sink. Didn't wash it. Later, perhaps.

"You should have a shower," he said, sitting down again. "And shave, probably. I didn't know you could grow facial hair..." Amusement. Chris couldn't help but smile, even slightly.

"I could grow a beard if I wanted to."

"Goodness, please don't. I can't even imagine."

"I'll become like you."

"Nooo..."

God, he'd fucking missed this. All of it, he missed- he missed- Peri. So much.

Why'd he have to leave?

Why him?

Not fair.

Childish...

_Shut up._

He forced a light chuckle. Itching to feel his fabric in his hands again, but not having the strength to actually reach into his pocket.

"Seriously, though." Peri scooted his seat closer, it screeched across the floor. "Pascal won't mind if you use his shower, you-"

"I can't." _Not now, at least._

Peri stared, dumbfounded. Blinked. "What? Why?"

Her hand in his hair, covered in soap, a washcloth in the other... not fair, not for her. He was just too tired. Couldn't stand, legs collapsed underneath him, his arms too heavy. Humiliating. She didn't mind. Or was that a lie she told him?

"It's complicated," he said. _Maybe tomorrow I'll feel better._

Some part of him needed to talk about it. Sick, sick, sick, exhaustion so deep in his bones that on most days he could hardly roll out of bed. Sick blood.

"I don't understand."

"You don't need to. It's fine."

And there was that look again. Curiosity mixed with concern, wide-eyed, the slight tilt of his head.

"But I want to help."

How many times had he said those words, now? With such indignation? Always wanting to help.

"It's complicated," Chris repeated, quieter, but firm. In reality, it wasn't very complicated at all. He was sick. He was tired. He couldn't wash himself properly, so Ivana had been doing it for him on the days where he was too tired to function.

But explaining that was humiliating. Why? Peri wouldn't care. He'd probably offer to help with _that, _too - Christopher wouldn't let him, of course. Nonetheless... humiliating. The mere thought of trying to explain was uncomfortable. No, it wasn't complicated, but he'd stumble and stutter over his words, and when his explanation didn't make sense, he'd need to try all over again, and-

And it would be a mess.

Peri didn't push for answers.

Chris almost wished he had.

"Pascal went out for groceries," Peri said, changing the subject. "He should be home soon, I think. Winta wanted to go with him, and I think the only reason he let her was-" he stopped.

"...Yes?"

"Well. Well, because he doesn't want her around you. I think. And neither does Omera."

_Fair enough. _It stung, but it wasn't like Pascal had a proper reason to trust him. Nor Omera, they'd hardly spoken at all the previous day. She seemed... not afraid, no. Angry, almost? She kept trying to look at him and meet his eyes.

Maybe... hm.

_Hm._

"Where's Omera, then?"

"Upstairs. With Din."

" 'Din'?"

"Oh." Peri leaned forward in the chair, his forearms resting on the table. "He called me by my proper name, finally, you know, so- so I thought I would return the favour. I mean, I asked first. And he said it was okay."

Chris hummed. "I'm surprised."

"Me too."

There was a sudden push against his leg. Chris looked down and saw Edgar's paw rested against it, his big wide eyes staring up at him.

"Whaddyou want?"

Edgar leapt from the floor and onto his lap. It was so sudden that he hadn't time to react. The dog's paws digging into his thighs as well as other places, heavier than any small dog had any right being. Chris inhaled sharply, the wind knocked out of him entirely, as Edgar flumped onto his lap.

"That," he strained, "is the exact spot you shouldn't be putting your paw."

Clueless, Edgar rested his head on Chris' knee.

"He must like you," Peri hummed with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"I can't imagine why."

Despite how uncomfortable it was, he made no move to pick Edgar off his lap. If anything, the dog was... cute. Stupid, but so was every other dog, really.

He scratched behind Edgar's ear. Maybe he could allow himself to have a moment of peace. Just a moment. Though he would rather have liked to adjust the dog's _position... _it was fine.

Footsteps sounded beyond the front door, in the garden. A set of two voices, one belonging to a child. They were back, then. It suddenly occurred to him that, perhaps, Pascal would not _want_ him to have Edgar in his lap. Still, he couldn't bring himself to move the dog.

There was the sound of a lock being opened, and a knob being turned. The door swung open, Winta giggling at something Pascal had said, and they both stepped through.

They ignored him. Pascal rather deliberately, but Winta didn't pay any mind at all. She skipped past them, to the stairs, and run up to - one would assume - greet her mother.

Meanwhile, Pascal quietly put away the groceries. Christopher hunched over himself, a conscious effort to make himself look small. It never worked. He was too tall.

He hated being tall.

"Go well?" Peri called from the table. Filling the silence.

"Yes, it was good," Pascal hummed. "Winta was a handful, but she's young."

"I was surprised you let her come."

"I figured why not. Should get out a bit, see the sun. Vitamins and all that." He scrunched up his nose. "I sound like my dad."

Finally, he finished putting away everything, and sighed. Turned to face them properly at the table. Or, rather... faced Christopher. Specifically.

"You're awake," he deadpanned.

Chris shrugged. Scratched more behind Edgar's ear, hoping for some comfort. Maybe that's why the dog decided to jump onto his lap. Maybe it knew he needed it.

Still an awkward spot, but he'd make do.

"How's your fever? How d'you feel?" Pascal asked.

Chris shrugged again. "Feel the same as yesterday," he muttered.

"If your fever doesn't break soon I'm taking you to the hospital."

_Please don't. Too vulnerable. _He shrugged again. Too much shrugging. Too much movement, so tired.

"Sleep well, at least?"

"Better than usual." _Thank you, for the bed. You didn't need to do that. The couch was fine._

"Good."

Something in Pascal had changed from last time. Perhaps it was the tone of his voice, or maybe his movements. Chris couldn't put a finger on it, not really, but in a way, he seemed more relaxed. Less stiff? In any case... it was good.

"Where's Edgar?" Pascal glanced around the room. "I haven't fed him yet."

Chris looked down at his lap. "Uh." Some part of him didn't want to say, out of fear of being told off, but it wouldn't do to hide it. "Here."

Pascal's eyebrows raised so high that they disappeared under his hair.

"It just- he just-" Chris stammered over his words. "He just jumped up, so I-"

"It's _fine, _dude. You're chill. I'm just surprised."

"...me too."

Strange to think about. He knew _about _Pascal, before all of this, of course he did. Enjoyed his work, how could he not? So he knew about Edgar. So it was strange, now, having that same dog sleeping peacefully in his lap.

Somehow it was weirder than actually talking to Pascal himself.

And shooting him.

With a gun.

He was... never going to live that down, was he?

"-going to get Din, and then you-"

"Huh? What?"

Zoned out! _Stop doing that._

"You weren't listening?" Pascal huffed. _Annoyed. This always happens. _"Take a shower. I'm going to get Din. Then you two can discuss a gameplan. He said he'd help."

"I already said-"

Pascal held up his hand, with such a stern expression on his face, that Chris couldn't help but snap his mouth shut.

"Take the help where you can get it," he said. "You're lucky Din offered at all. You take a shower."

_But, _Chris almost protested, and caught himself just in time, _I can't. I'm too tired. Please, I'm exhausted. I can't._

Instead he nodded. _No point in arguing._

He followed Pascal to the bathroom. Nodded at everything the man said, even though he didn't hear a single word. Then he was alone.

Clothes discarded and legs shaking under him, fearing they would give in, he stepped into the enclosed shower. Shivered under the barrage of cold water raining down on him, wishing to make it hot but knowing that his temperature was already too high.

Pushing through the heavy weakness in his arms he reached for the soap. Not a hand-held bar, like he had been expecting, but much like hand-soap, with a nozzle that you press. Somehow, this was worse. He moved to press it, but his arm only fell back to his side, heavy.

He looked down at his hand, like he were expecting to see something different. Just pale, thin. So heavy. Tried to lift it again, fell.

He fell back, his spine meeting the cold tiles, and slid down to the floor. Hugged his knees close to his chest, trying to find a way to sit so that his feet were not under the water. Cold, cold, too cold, but skin too hot. Dizzy, light, but heavy. A feather weighed down by pressure, light and heavy.

Needed to be clean. Took a deep, shuddering breath, and used the slippery tiling to pull himself from the floor. Shivering, shaking, he reached this time, for the shampoo.

A small bottle, nearly empty, not too heavy, he was okay. Just a bit, didn't need much, short hair... not so short anymore. Needed to cut it. Might ask Ivana...

The bottle slipped from his grasp. It clattered to the floor, the sound bounced off the walls in the bathroom. Already Chris could hear footsteps from outside the bathroom, thin walls.

A knock.

"Everything okay?" came Pascal's voice.

Christopher cleared his throat. _No, _he wanted to say. _I want to get out. _"Dropped something," he replied. It was the truth, but something still felt unequivocally wrong. Perhaps that was why, then, that Pascal creaked open the door, and, very pointedly covering his eyes with his hand, stepped in.

"Are you sure? Because-"

"I'm fine," Chris said, and immediately knew it was too quick. Pascal frowned.

"You've been in here a while, though."

Had he? _Have I? _So difficult... keeping track of time.

"Sorry," he muttered, though he knew it couldn't be heard over the rushing water. "I'll- I'll be out soon, I'm just-" _so fucking tired._

"Okay," Pascal said, barely audible. "When you're done, I have some clothes laid out for you. And don't rush, please. Take your time."

The door closed again, and Pascal was gone. Chris bent down to pick up the bottle, but only found himself falling to his knees.

Maybe he could wash his hair like that. Sighing to himself, half annoyed and half sad, he squeezed a small amount of the shampoo into his hand. Looked like enough. He changed into a cross-legged position and began to half-heartedly scrub his hair.

Matted. It hurt to tug at the knots, but he needed to. Maybe he didn't need to... but god fucking dammit, he wanted soft hair. Ivana always could get it to be soft. How? Witchcraft.

He pulled the last knot. It hurt, it all hurt, but maybe it would be worth it.

_Is the pain ever worth it?_

He stood again, using the wall as his support. Waited for the water to rinse all the soap. Did he need conditioner? Probably not. Just wanted to get out.

So he did. Turned off the tap, would have sprinted toward the towel had he not been soaking wet, and wrapped himself in it. Warm. Too short, but warm.

Just as Pascal had said, clothes rested on the towel rack, neatly folded on top of each other. Baggy clothes, perhaps they would fit. He unfolded them while he waited for himself to dry.

Simple, shirt and jeans. A belt, too. Considerate.

Too fucking considerate.

So kind, so generous, and _why? _What reason did Pascal have to give a single fucking damn? And yet... and yet.

And Djarin, too. He offered to help.

_Help me. Why? _Why did he care? _What's the point?_

The towel wrapped around his shoulders like a makeshift cape. Shouldn't have made the water so fucking cold. Shivering, trembling. He pulled the towel tighter around his shoulders. Didn't want to let it go to put on clothes. Too cold, but he needed to. He let it fall to the floor, and moved to grab the shirt, but froze as he caught his reflection in the mirror.

He'd never much liked mirrors. Even as a child, something about his own reflection, like, like it reminded him that he existed, that he was real, that his life wasn't some make-believe fantasy.

Now, staring into his own eyes, all Chris could think about was how much he despised how he looked. Perhaps it was the stubble, or the beads of sweat mixed with cold shower water, or the simple fact that he'd become so thin that his round face had become sullen and defined. Regardless of why,it made his body stiffen and hands clench into fists.

He got dressed hurriedly, making quick use of the sudden surge of energy, and soon enough he was pulling open the bathroom door and stepping back out into the lounge.

All eyes landed on him, and though he knew better, he could not help but feel they were judging him. His appearance, his movements.

Winta sat on Omera's lap, but as soon as he began to approach Omera lifted her off.

"Go play outside," she said.

"But-"

"No buts. Go."

Winta pouted, but obliged. Her eyes only briefly lingered on Christopher before she was out the backdoor.

Pascal patted the seat next to him. "Sit," he said.

"Next to you?"

A nod. Chris approached then lowered himself slowly onto the couch, using the armrest as a means to keep from falling.

Djarin sat immediately opposite, with Omera beside him, and Peri bunched up with pillows in an armchair.

Djarin was the first to speak.

"Do you know where they are?" He leaned forward. Christopher tried to meet his eyes, but they lingered quite pointedly on the floor.

"Yes," Chris rasped. "It's a five-hour drive. From our house."

"You been there before? You know the layout?"

Old, crumbling, dark hallways, dark doors, dark stairs, heat, _spiders._

He cleared his throat. "Vaguely."

Maze, walls, shelves, spiders, pitch black, changing, chanting. Torch blowing out. Running, crying. Spiders. A knife, an echoing gunshot, bloody fists. That boy...

"Suppose I go." Djarin's voice brought him back to reality. "You know a way in?"

Around the back, large door, metal door, passcode. Webs.

"There's a door 'round the back? But, but it needs a code."

_Don't get it wrong. Don't get it wrong. Don't get it wrong._

Djarin hummed. He drummed his fingers on the inside of his thigh. "Could cut the wires."

"No, you'd need to disable the alarms first. Is there a piece of paper I could-"

But Djarin was already tearing a page out of his notebook, and Pascal offering a pen. Chris took both.

"So." He drew a half-hearted rectangle, then labelled each section he could recall. Dread settled in his stomach each time he came close to the right-hand side, a splitting pain spread across his forehead sectioning off that hallway and its stairs. Hypnotising, pulling, dark...

"Y-You could-" took a deep breath and tried again. "You could climb in through this window," pointed with the pen at a small little office-like room, "where you could disable the alarm system. Then go 'round the back." He drew a line from the window to the backdoor. "And cut those wires."

Djarin hummed, then frowned. "This layout. What is this building? Exactly?"

"I think it used to be a prison. Midway through reconstruction, they, uh, abandoned it. I wanna say it's at least sixty years old."

Peri shifted in his seat, burying his face in a pillow held to his chest. "How come I never heard about this?" he asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.

_Because we didn't want to tell you. _Chris stared down at the piece of paper, folding and unfolding it.

"It was before we met you," he lied. Hated to lie, but above that, knew the consequences that came with _knowing. _"And it wasn't important." Another lie.

"Why were you there?" Omera perked up abruptly. She was frowning, a deep and concerned frown, fear and anger mixed into one, and all the while trying to hide it.

Chris cleared his throat. Suddenly aware of the heat, the heat creeping up his spine, through his veins, spreading across his body like a wildfire. He shivered, taking an unsteady shallow breath.

"We were tracking someone down."

No matter how hard he tried, nothing could erase that man's face from his mind. The insanity behind those eyes, an insanity disguised by a disgustingly charming demeanour. Eleis, in all his embodiment of paranoia, standing before them holding nothing but a cane and a shrill smile.

"To kill them?"

He didn't think twice. "Yes."

Her demeanour didn't shift, showed no sign of shock, or fear. But he could feel her eyes boring into his skull. He couldn't bring himself to meet them.

"Who's this person, then?" Djarin questioned. "Someone to worry about?"

A knot in his throat. Couldn't continue. How could he possibly continue, when a simple mention of the man made him sick to his stomach?

"He won't be there," he croaked. _Because, despite it all, he doesn't want to get his fucking hands dirty. _"But his associates will."

"You know them?"

"I've encountered them."

Even Djarin's glare wasn't enough to force him to elaborate.

"Fine, then," Djarin sighed. "I need an idea of where they'll be keeping Ivana and Sam."

Chris stared down at the makeshift map in his hand. A sense of dread filled his gut, nausea forcing its way up his throat. _He wouldn't. He couldn't._

"I don't know."

_Please, Eleis. You can't. Not there._

A chill, the heat, cold air but hot and suffocating. Burning. Boiling, screaming, gone. The boy was gone.

So many spiders.

"Chris? Christopher?" A hand on his shoulder, Pascal's voice. "You okay?"

" 'M fine." _I feel sick. _"Djarin..." He looked up, at the Mandalorian, his fists clenched into tight balls and nails digging into his palm. "I want to go with you."

A raised eyebrow, the whole room holding its breath, Peri was frightened.

"I can't let you do that," said Djarin. "Even if you weren't..." he gestured at Chris' thin frame. "...like this."

Ivana, frightened, trying to be strong, she was always so strong, but so scared. What were they doing to her? _Torture? They wouldn't. _And Sam? Crying, terrified, the world crashing down around her, _she doesn't deserve this._

"My _wife _is in there." He slid the ring off his finger, held it in his palm. _What if she's already dead?_ "I'm going, with or without you." _I can't live without her._

Djarin's jaw visibly clenched. Even with his eyes held below Chris' chin, he could still feel the glare. Peri was sitting upright now, paying full attention.. concern and fear etched into his expression.

"Chris, you- you can't," Peri rasped. _Chris. He never calls me Chris. _"You said, you _said-"_

"Doctor, I was always going to go, I just, I needed help."

"Because it's too dangerous."

_Yes._

The words got stuck in his throat. He swallowed harshly, all the while tears filled Peri's eyes, desperate and begging. Begging him to stay. _"Please don't go to your death." _  
  
"When did you want to leave?" Djarin's voice cut through the tension, Peri buried his face in the pillow. Christopher very reluctantly turned his attention away.

"My plan... was to leave today. But if you-"

"No. That should be fine."

But Pascal shuffled forward on the couch, Chris knew what he would say before the man even opened his mouth.

"No. Christopher, you're sick. You'll get yourself-"

"I appreciate the concern," Chris interrupted, feeling both his jaw and his fists clench and tighten, "but there's nothing you can do to stop me."

And there it was again. That sympathy, the pity. Disgusting. Was this how Peri had felt?

With or without help, he was going. Ivana was in there. Sam was in there. Dead, or alive... he would retrieve them.

If they were gone...

it was the least he could do.

"I'll get my armour," came Din's voice, now quiet, strangely soft. There was pity in that voice, too. And sadness. "Then we can go to your place. Figure out a plan."

He disappeared upstairs, and Omera followed quickly suit.

* * *

The door creaked open, just as he pulled on his gloves. Omera stepped through into the bedroom. Quiet. Sombre.

"I don't want you to go."

Din froze, his hand reaching out for his helmet. The visor glared up at him. He turned to face her full-on.

"If I don't," he said, "people will die."

Omera wrung her hands in front of herself and nodded solemnly. Almost on the verge of tears, she sniffled.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just-" She stepped closer, holding out her hands. When Din did not object, she placed them on his arms. Felt the thick fabric.

"What if this is more than we know, like Christopher said? What if this is too dangerous?"

She looked up at him, but for once, did not try to meet his eyes. They lingered on his nose, rather, and the subtle action alone was enough to put a lump in Din's throat.

"I don't want to lose you," she murmured.

Din gently plucked her hands off of his arms. He stepped back and turned again to the helmet on the bed.

Mocking. Daring. But he would not shy away from it.

Dar'manda or not.

He lifted it, slowly, carefully, like it was a delicate porcelain doll. Turning back to Omera, he said,

"You don't want to lose me in the same way that Christopher doesn't want to lose his wife. I can prevent that from happening. If I don't try, her blood is on my hands."

His arms began to raise above his head, like he were on autopilot. It was a mechanical movement, one he'd done so many times before, for so many years, over and over and over. When was the last time he wore the helmet?

He closed his eyes and lowered it over his head. When he opened them again, the world was darker. Dull. Familiar, but not a comfort. Omera stared at him. He stared right back. Finally, he could look into her eyes. An odd feeling, one he could not possibly describe, tore through him like a hurricane, her eyes, like windows to her soul, and it was as though, in that moment, she was so positively present that he could _feel her _even though they did not touch at all. What was it?

Din held out his hand to her. She took it, her fingers interlocking with his. He pulled her closer, and she obliged. His other hand cupped her jaw. Her eyes, moving back and forth across his visor, deep, dark brown. Her eyes, her presence, overwhelmingly _there, _a place where she shouldn't be at all, somehow, he could feel the Universe pressing against her soul.

She should've been in Sorgan, the garden, her hands rested on either side of his helmet. She didn't try to lift it this time, but he wished she would.

"I'll come back," he said. His voice strained, could she hear it through the modulation? Maybe she was right. Maybe _Christopher _was right, maybe this was so beyond anything, maybe it was too much, too dangerous, maybe, maybe...

He leaned forward, his hand in her hair, wishing to take off his glove, and pressed their foreheads together.

Maybe she'd understand what it meant.

He hoped she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> submit commissions to support me on [ fiverr!!! ](https://www.fiverr.com/share/mYmx8V)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/QxdaPYsMVn) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)


	43. of the hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm not quite ready  
To turn to bone  
To petrify the shred of life  
I'm holding onto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what! I'm out of school now, so I'll have so much more time to write and write and write! I'm so excited!

The car ride was, to say the very least, uncomfortable.

Din would have liked to imagine it was because of his armour, he wasn't used to wearing it anymore. But that wasn't it. No, it was the silence. Even with the drone of the engine, the wheels across the road, traffic passing by, the silence was suffocating.

He sat in the back seat. Not because he didn't want to be next to Christopher, but because it was easier to hide. In hindsight, he probably should have packed his armour into a bag and put it all on before entering this facility. But it was too late now, and he couldn't be arsed taking it all off. He doubted he even could, strapped in as he was.

Christopher has his gaze firmly planted on the road ahead. As he should, he was driving, after all. But it was still somehow unnerving. The level of concentration, both hands tightly clenching the wheel. Anger? Fear? So hard to tell, with that poker expression. He was so emotive before, what changed...?

It wasn't a terribly long drive. He knew it wasn't, the clock in his HUD - which, admittedly, he had only recently gotten around to adjusting - told him it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes, by the time they arrived. But every moment spent in that suffocating, deafening silence... it felt like hours.

The car pulled into a driveway. Din recognised the house, but yet it felt so different. Perhaps it was due to a change in circumstance; or perhaps it was simply due to seeing it in the warm daylight, instead of in the cold early evening. Looking at it now, it was easier to make out the details. Run-down, in desperate need of repair. Even from the outside the house looked fragile. He tried to recall what it looked like before, but all memory was replaced by the adrenaline and anger fuelled by his need to save his brother.

Christopher opened the car door and pushed it open with his foot. He practically leapt from the seat, slamming the door behind him. Din found himself reluctant to get out until the front door was opened and he could rush in, but with the way Christopher was walking like he were about to faint at any given moment, he thought it might be a good idea to get out and ensure the man wouldn't fall backward down the stairs leading to the front door.

Catching up to him, he found him fumbling with a small set of keys. Hands shaking, trembling, as he sorted through the keys. He picked one after a few moments and moved to shove it in the door, but with his hand trembling so bad it didn't go in. So he tried again, with more force, only for the keys to fall straight out of his hand and onto the concrete. He slammed his closed fist into the door with a loud

"FUCKER!"

before bending down to grab the keys again, using the door he just punched to stop himself from simply keeling over.

Standing again, he finally got the key into the door and turned it. It unlocked with a click and the door swung open.

A long hallway. This he remembered vividly. Too wide, too long, with doors on each side. Christopher led him into a room off to the right, and another short corridor, before winding a corner and finding themselves in a large room he could only imagine tripled as study, lounge, and bedroom. A couch in one left corner and three mattresses lined up against the far right wall. Behind them, a desk with a cheap-looking laptop.

"This layout is strange," Din said, speaking for the first time since they departed.

"I know," came the quiet response. "It's old and supposedly haunted. Which is why we can afford to pay rent."

"...haunted?"

"It's not."

This was not a comfort. Din didn't believe in ghosts, much the same way he didn't believe in any gods, but the tone in Chris' voice was enough to make him second guess.

There was the sound of a drawer being slid open, then two soft clicks. He recognised it, he would recognise it anywhere. It was the sound of safety on a gun being switched off and on again. A cautionary measure, just to make sure, like locking the car door twice.

"Wait," Din stepped forward, almost instinctively holding up his hands. "Show me how you aim that."

Christopher looked up at him with a puzzled expression. The gun held limply in his hand. Heavy, tired.

"I can aim fine."

"Then show me."

A frown, bordering on a scowl. But then a resigned sigh, and Chris slowly but surely aimed the gun at the far wall with his right hand.

"You're left-handed. Why are you using your right?"

Silence. A puzzled expression on Christopher's face.

"I guess, I just... I don't know, it's just what feels right."

_Ambidextrous? Maybe. Doesn't matter._

He changed the subject. "Your stance is too loose. I could push you over." Just to prove his point, he approached and shoved as hard as he could against Chris' shoulder. Immediately the man began to fall sideways, only barely catching himself in time.

"Christ," he hissed. "Don't fucking-"

"Fix your stance, then."

"I'm too tired."

"I guess you'll need to stay here." Din tilted his head to the side. Chris' mouth snapped shut.

He didn't say a word as he resumed his original position.

"No," Din said. "Your legs are too close together." He reached down and grabbed Chris shin, ignoring the sounds of protest, and moved it to the left. Then he brought up his foot and slammed his heel into the back of Chris' knee. It instantly buckled and the man collapsed to the floor with a satisfying thud.

"I shouldn't be able to do that," said Din. "Try again."

Christopher glared at him from below, sprawled on the ground. "We're wasting time," he growled.

"If you can't defend yourself, then you're not going. Get up and try again."

Using the wall, Chris pulled himself upright once more. Scowling, he shoved the gun in the direction of the wall.

"Now you're too tense."

"Fuck off."

"You want to come or _not?"_

"I just want my wife!" He whipped around to face Din, his hand falling to his side, a fowl expression on his face.

"Then pick up that fucking gun and show me you can defend yourself, you ungrateful little shit."

Christopher stumbled backward, tears in his eyes and hand clutched far too tight around the gun and its trigger. If the safety wasn't on it would have fired into the floor. Chris audibly sniffled, only barely managing to stop himself from outright crying. A very small and isolated part of Din's brain felt guilty.

Apparently, that small part was enough.

"Fine," Din said, clenching his fists. "Fine. Show me how you fight then. Spar me."

"I don't know how," Chris croaked.

"I'll teach you."

From then on, Christopher didn't try to refute. He was silent, almost entirely, speaking only to ask soft-spoken questions.

Despite the exhaustion so clearly weighing down on him, Christopher was... a surprisingly decent opponent. Stronger than he would have thought, at least. Perhaps it was the adrenaline giving him that push that he needed, or fear of being yelled at again. He was no Mandalorian, but against the right foe, perhaps he could actually survive.

They spent two hours training. Christopher wasn't happy about it, this was plain by the frown and the frantic glances at the clock. Din would have insisted they go for longer had he not feared the sun being set by the time they arrived.

They packed to leave, in silence, at quarter-past two. At half past, they got into the car. Christopher carrying equipment in a duffle bag and on his belt. The "just in case" stuff, as he'd called it. Then chuckled to himself as though it were some inside joke.

The engine roared to life, but the car didn't move. Din thought perhaps Christopher was letting the engine warm up, at first, but upon glancing over - as he was now sitting in the front passenger seat - he found Chris with one closed fist over his mouth and his glazed eyes staring blankly at the dashboard.

After a moment, the man spoke.

"If it comes down to me or them..."

"It won't."

"But if it does." Chris' eyes flicked over his visor, but his gaze was too low to meet Din's eyes. "If it does, you need to save them." He swallowed harshly.

Din nodded, slowly. "Understood."

"And- and if it's _you _or them-" he stopped, unwilling to finish his sentence. He didn't need to.

"I understand."

_Let's hope Pedro does, too._

* * *

  
  
  


After a five hour drive in complete silence, the car rolled to a slow stop.

Din could see the building in the distance. Abandoned and crumbling, grey and old. Even with its low roof it loomed over everything that surrounded it. The yellow grass, the barren trees.

Christopher had his arms crossed over his chest, hugging himself protectively. He hadn't moved to open the car door, but his eyes were firmly trained on the building ahead. Not blinking, hardly even breathing, as still as a statue and so plainly terrified that it made Din's skin crawl.

"I can't do this." A strained, hoarse whisper. His hands fell into his lap. "No. No, I can, I just..." His head fell to his chest and he spoke in a quiet, muffled voice, "Sod it all."

Silence, then a heavy sigh. Christopher looked up again and, with apparent newfound courage and energy, shoved open the car door. Already speeding away from the car, Din had to run to catch up with him, and speed-walk to keep up with his long stride.

It didn't take them long to reach the building, and Din wished it had taken longer. He wished Christopher had parked further away. But they arrived, and there was no turning back. A chill ran down his spine stepping into the premises.

"I'm sorry," Chris said quietly. He didn't elaborate, even when Din asked.

They rounded to the side of the building. A series of windows, up high from the ground, and dark around the edges.

"It's soot," Christopher muttered, somehow sensing Din's curiosity.

"Was there a fire?"

Chris approached a far window. He pushed it, and surprisingly, it moved. So old, so damaged, that all it needed was a gentle shove.

"Something like that. Stay here."

Din watched as Christopher hoisted himself up onto the window sill and disappeared into the building. He could faintly hear rummaging from within, alongside frustrated grunts. Eventually his head poked back through the window with a scowl on his face.

"The alarms were already fucking disabled."

Din's own face morphed into a scowl, his eyes widening. "They knew we were coming. How?"

"Bugged my phone. Get up here, bring the bag with you."

Din pulled himself and the duffel bag through the window and landed in a small enclosed office-like space, complete with a desk and chair - albeit old and falling apart. It might've been cozy had the brown wallpaper not been peeling from the walls, exposing cracked stone masonry, and had the floor not been covered in a mixture of dirt and soot.

"They bugged your phone?"

"I didn't think they could listen when I wasn't on a call. Apparently I was _wrong_." Chris visibly shivered as he took the bag from Din. "Fucking twats. I wish I could be surprised."

The desk creaked in protest as the heavy duffel bag was placed on top of it and Christopher unzipped it, rummaging through and placing equipment on the table one by one. At the end, he held up a flashlight.

"I know you already have the light on your helmet. But you need to take this."

"I won't need it."

"Just take it."

Christopher's arm outstretched, the cheap torch in his hand. Din took it with a heavy sigh and attached it to his belt.

"Okay." Din turned to the door, an old decaying thing with a giant hole straight to the other side. "You know the layout. Do you have _any _idea where they might be?"

Chris tried the door. Locked. He reached through the hole and unlocked it from the other side, then shoved it open. It creaked and groaned, screeching as it slowly opened up into a dimly lit and empty hallway. The wallpaper here was worse for wear.

"I-I suppose I could make a guess. Take a gander." He poked his head through the doorway, then stepped into it. "Only a few of these rooms have a lock. She has to be in one of them, right?"

Din blinked, wishing he could glare at Chris through the helmet. "_They _should be, yes. Both of them. Together."

"...Right. Yes. Sorry. Everything's..." he tapped the side of his head. "Fuzzy."

They ventured down the hall, careful with their steps, slow. Each small noise echoed off the walls, making them stop, and listen. The further they walked through the building, which was beginning to feel more like a twisting labyrinth, the worse the stench of smoke became. 

Chris stopped in a small enclosed room, with no windows and only a low hanging bulb to light their way.

"She was here recently."

It was so quiet, that Din almost didn't hear it. But he did. He turned to face Christopher.

"Who?"

His eyes scanned the room with frightening speed, dancing back and forth.

"Desolation."

He coughed as he said this, loud and harsh. Even with Din's helmet filtering it out the smell of smoke was overwhelming; he couldn't begin to imagine how bad it was for him.

"I don't understand," said Din.

A scream. They froze. Barely a few rooms away, a scream, frightening and distinctly female, the two of them barely exchanged a look before Christopher sped away leaving Din to chase after him, yelling for him to _stop, _and _think, _but he was already gone. Din sprinted through room after room, trying to recall which direction the scream had come from, thinking he might be able to get there _before _Christopher, but five minutes later at the turn of a corner he knew he was already too late.

A voice, a woman, she spoke with a growl, menacing, threatening, _not _Ivana or Sam, she spoke in words Din could not understand, a foreign language he did not recognise.

There was a sharp intake of breath, a garbled gasp. Something sliding down a wall, a thud. Din had heard enough.

He leapt from behind the wall. The woman, red-headed but not Ivana, did not have time to react before the blaster fired in a brilliant display of red and she dropped to the floor, a hole burning through her skull. Dead. 

Christopher slumped against the wall. A blade embedded in his stomach, seeping blood, he took quick rattled breaths, too quick, too fast. Din moved to him, dropped to his knees and rested his hand on the dagger's hilt, his other on Christopher's torso.

Hyperventilating. Needed to calm him. How?

"Hey," he tried, "Hey, hey, listen to me."

The blue eyes looked at him but they were unseeing, glazed. Shock. _Act quick._

"You're fine," Din continued. "You're okay." He grabbed Christopher's legs, dragged him down, on his back. Hoisted the feet into the air, rested them on his own knees. Get blood to the heart.

_Blade didn't go all the way through. Pull out dagger, be quick. Apply pressure. Apply bacta. Calm him._

"Look at me. Keep looking at me. I need to pull this out. _Look _at me." He reached for Christopher's hand. Grabbed it. Held it tight. "I'm going to pull this out. I'll count down, from three. Look at me."

Blue eyes, wide, glazed, unseeing, flicking back and forth across Din's visor, still hyperventilating. Afraid, looked like an animal. A deer about to be slaughtered. He spoke, painfully harsh, words seeping with terror;

"I don't want- I don't want to _die."_

Heartbreaking.

"You're not going to die. I'm going to count down. Three, two-"

He tugged the blade. It came out in one swift motion. There was a gut-wrenching scream, tears; his hand clenched around Din's glove. Good, good, _he can still feel pain_. Not numb.

Din dropped the blade to the side; it clattered to the ground. Lifted Christopher's shirt. Tore off his glove and pressed his hand against the wound, another scream.

"Calm down. You need to calm down. I'm going to apply the bacta. You need to calm down."

"I don't- I don't want to die- I _can't_-"

"You're not going to die. Calm down. Breathe."

"I can't leave them!"

"Calm down."

"Ivana..." He gagged. Din moved quickly, turned his head to one side, spat out clear liquid. "She says, she says- she loves me, she says it- _every _day, she says it, she _tells_ me-"

He switched to Bulgarian. Repeated the same words, over and over. His chest moved up and down, up and down, violently under Din's hand. Too fast.

Din freed his hand from Christopher's grasp. Snatched the bacta from his belt. Held it ready. Move quick. Losing blood. Moved his hand off the wound. Pressed down the spray. Muttering trailed off. Breathing slowed. Good. Helping. Calming. Working.

"You'll be okay," Din spoke softly. "You'll be okay. Keep breathing."

Their eyes met. Deep blue. Like the ocean, they swallowed you. Strange how vibrant they were. Blue. Unapologetically beautiful. It was no wonder Ivana fell for him. It was no wonder how anyone could.

But, familiarity. Something, something he recognised... could feel the weight of the Universe on them. Like what he felt, staring into Omera's eyes. The same feeling, _why?_

Din tore his gaze away. Focused on the dagger he'd discarded, coated in blood. Some word engraved on it. Sharp, well-made. Couldn't get it from any standard shop. Custom made? He reached for it, wiped off the blood with the back of his discarded glove.

Lettering, spindly.

"Candid," he read aloud. "C-A-N-D-I-D."

"Mus'... Mus' be their... something..."

He looked down at the wound. The bacta was already working, tissue was beginning to heal. Narrowly missed any vital organs. Breathing; still ragged, shaky, but not hyperventilating. His head lulled to one side, and mouth partially hung open. Staring off into the distance. Still that glazed look.

"I'm going to look for them," Din finally spoke. He pulled his glove back over his hand. "You need to stay here. You _stay here, _do not move,understand?"

Christopher's gaze washed over him again, and Din felt it.

He expected the man to protest. To insist on helping, but he didn't. Instead, he nodded—silent resignation.

"If I'm not back in an hour, you call the police. One hour. Do _not _fall asleep."

Another nod. Silent, no words.

Din lifted Christopher's feet off from his knees. Lowered them gently to the ground. Far too light, how unfair.

He stood slowly. Christopher watched but still didn't say a word. Din turned, began to walk through to the next room. It wasn't until he was about to turn the handle that he heard Christopher speak.

"I'm sorry."

_For what? Why won't you tell me?_

Din didn't respond.

The next room was dark. Darker than the rest, even with the flickering light overhead.

"What a skughole," he muttered to himself. It looked like a basement. The floor was made up of grey tiles, some of which had been pulled from the ground, exposing a dirty run-down foundation. The building had to have been standing for centuries from the state of it, but was built in such a style that was far too modern for something so old. Even the walls, which were also a stingy grey, were cracked and desolate. It didn't help that the ceiling light desperately needed changing.

He approached a desk pushed to the far side of a wall. Upon it were strewn dozens of papers, which were, _thankfully_, in Basic. Handwritten. Scratchy lettering, scrawled and rushed. He picked up one page and began to read.

_Abbi,_

_Gabriel told me you're trying your hand at Farnes again. You shouldn't. The fucker is smart, and I don't mean that lightly. Lay off him until Eleis gets back. It won't be long now, you can wait._

_Eleis has a plan. You just need to be patient. I know you're new, and someone like Farnes is appealing, but he's killed some of our best. You're not ready._

_Heidi_

_ps. Congratulations on little Anthony._

Din turned the page over, hoping to find some sort of date, but it was just blank. The paper was crinkled, so it couldn't have been too recent. He could guess that this Abbi was the woman lying dead in the next room.

Little Anthony. A child?

Did she have a child?

He picked up another letter.

_Abbi,_

_You had the baby? Congratulations! Sorry I didn't find out sooner, but I was busy, as you understand._

_Heidi told me she talked to you about Farnes. I know what he did, but your brother knew what he was getting into, and you need to keep yourself alive for your baby. Can I call him Ant?_

_Have to keep this letter short. Leaving soon, will post it when I arrive. Live well and be safe._

_Gabe_

Needed more information, but couldn't waste time. He gathered all the letters he could see into a thick pile. In the corner he spotted a small brown bag, which held more letters. He'd take the whole thing.

It was heavy. Din flung it over his shoulder.

On to the next room.

In no better shape than the last, the room felt abandoned. The only clue that it was ever used at all was the still lit oil lamp sitting on a desk. Recent?

He almost moved on directly to the next room. But he paused, just before the door. A notebook sat near the lamp, situated just behind almost in a ditch effort to hide it. He carefully reached out, picked it from its spot.

It was soft, like leather. Even through his thick gloves he could feel the expensive binding.

Carefully Din flipped it onto the first page. The writing was messy and spindly, old-fashioned, but with enough concentration, he could make out the first page.

_1967, Nov 23rd, 1800hrs._

_I know the risks. They do, I do; we know. But this, this is important. Imperative. To our future. To this world's future. The others do not understand. The others think us insane, inane. But we know what is truly going on here. We know what must be done. The others do not understand. Mothers, forgive us, for what we must do, forgive us for our purpose, we cannot abandon it. May our Goddess look down upon us and smile for we have done what is right. Mothers, you do not understand, and we are sorry._

_I will document all I can, in hopes that the mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, might someday understand our purpose. In hopes they will understand why we must do this. It is Her will._

_We are sorry for those who we bring to harm. Might they find peace in an afterlife, should there be one; might they find rest, and one day, might they be reunited with their families and friends._

_Documentation of C.A.N.D.I.D. begins._

CANDID stood for something, but what? There had to be more information somewhere. Perhaps if he read deeper he would find it. But someone had been there recently. The oil lamp still lit, the chair jutted out from its desk like it had been shoved. Scratch marks on the floor, white. He could almost hear the chair scraping the ground as whoever had been sitting in it propelled it backward.

1967\. Assuming this person was in their twenties at the time of writing, they'd have to be at least in their late sixties. Early seventies, at the most, and still involved in this organisation. Were they the founder?

"Some sort of cult," he muttered. He'd bring the notebook with him. If he met the writer along the way, then, well. He had to be careful. It wouldn't do well to underestimate people like this.

He left the room.

Stepped into a corridor; dark, damp. The place was in such disarray, it was difficult to imagine anyone living there. Perhaps it was only temporary. His footsteps echoed against the hard flooring as he wandered down the corridor. The wallpaper on the walls was peeling away, revealing stone masonry which was chipped and cracked. Lights overhead were dim, flickering. Old. A strange place with a strange history.

He halted at the end of the corridor. A tall door just off its hinges stood before him. It creaked in protest as he pulled it open, then fell to the floor with a bang. The back was marked by scratches, haphazard and frantic.

Someone had been trying to get out.

Beyond the now empty doorway was a stairway. Leading downward, into darkness, all-consuming and terrifying yet somehow beckoning. The void calling on him, promising something he couldn't decipher. The longer he stared, the more powerful the pull became.

He took the first step like he was on autopilot. Then another, and another. Before he knew it he'd landed at the bottom of the stairway, looking out into complete and total blackness. A void. He stared into it, and it stared back. The door closed behind him.

He switched on his torch and ventured forward.


	44. Desolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though the fire and wind  
Shattered down the hills with a rage unbent  
And a fear that shook the firmament  
He was not within them, the clatter of brass and drums

Shelves. Shelves, upon shelves, layered with books upon books, old and fragile; Din did not touch them, did not dare to. Every glance at the books sent a barrage of shivers down his spine, and despite the growing heat as he ventured further and further into the long winding hallways he shivered and _shook _with each step. Moving shadows from the corner of his vision, he'd whip around to confront it but nothing. Nothing was there, nothing was ever there. His hand did not leave his blaster.

Yeah Empty. Unbearably empty, just old crusted books and cobwebs lining the shelves, the walls.

Hundreds of webs occupied by nothing but dead spiders.

Din's footsteps fell heavy and slow. They echoed, the sound resounded and bounced off the walls and ceiling, travelling through the halls and jumping back at him. The further he found himself, the hotter his armour felt, his skin, sweat forming on his forehead.

The torch on his helmet swept over the walls. There was no wallpaper, here; just stone masonry, loose and crumbling, ready to collapse at any moment's notice. There were no doorways. Only endless halls, winding corridors. He kept on a straight and narrow path, did not round a single corner, he was not stupid.

Kept walking. Took in every nook and cranny, studied each corner and shelf as vigorously as he possibly could without it collapsing and crushing him under its weight. For a long while, there was nothing. Nothing of note, nothing that traversed beyond how weird everything already was, until the long hall came to an abrupt end.

He had not seen it. The end of the hallway. Like some unknown force had placed it there when he was not looking, one moment he was walking and the next, his helmet collided against the masonry with a resounding deafening clang.

He stumbled backward, swore out loud in Mando'a. Arched his leg back and kicked the wall with a frustrated grunt. Too bothered and fucking sweaty to care about the racket he was making, Din kicked it again.

"Stupid," he muttered. "Stupid."

He raked his gaze up and down the wall. It was the same as all the others, old and unstable. He mentally cursed himself for kicking a wall that looked ready to crumble. Sighed to himself. If he'd met a dead end and found nothing then his only option would be walking back the way he came and choosing a hall to explore. He turned around, ready to march on-

A wall.

A wall that had not been there seconds prior. It glared at him, mocked him, old and fragile, a wall that appeared from thin air.

Din slowly reached out his hand. Pressed it against the wall in front of him. Solid. Not a trick. Not a hallucination. He pressed harder. The heat in his suit began to rise as his heart rate quickened. He brought back his fist and slammed it as hard as he could into the wall, and only received a spike of blaring pain in return, he stumbled backward and his back met the other side, stone-cold masonry that he could feel even through layers of fabric.

A wall.

Had he not been careful, not to round a single corner? Had he not been paying attention? No. No, he was absolutely certain, his path had been straight and narrow, he did not waver from it. Perhaps it was a contraption, some wire that he tripped, perhaps if he simply found the trigger the wall would go back into the floor, or the ceiling, or wherever it came from. But no matter how hard he looked there was nothing. Pressed every brick, shoved his body against the wall, kicked it with enough force to smash someone's head in. Nothing, not a single budge. It was a solid, absolute wall.

The reality of the situation set in ten minutes into his predicament.

If he was to escape, he'd need to move forward.

And risk getting lost forever within its walls. To die of dehydration, or heat stroke. To suffocate on the thick waft of smoke creeping in from around the corner. Or maybe, he'd spend months in the darkened hell, and die from starvation.

The smoke writhed and danced unnaturally in an unfelt wind. Like an octopus out of water, slowly making its way to him, readying itself to engulf him entirely and steal the air from his lungs. He could've moved away from it. Could've run the other direction, distanced himself from it as much as possible, but despite this, he did not. His own legs moving against his will, into the waft of smoke. An overwhelming stench, invading his senses, blinding him, the deeper he ventured the more obscure his vision became until his light no longer pierced through it.

Violent coughs wracking his frame, hurting his chest. His lungs rattled as he wheezed, with each pained inhale he choked and coughed until he was forced to inhale again, and again, no air, not enough air. Too far, couldn't turn back, no end in sight. The turning and tilting of the world and falling against a wall, a heavy thud barely registered in his own mind. Just the piercing pain in his head, his chest, the viscid smoke in his lungs, a pressure in his throat but no air to satiate it. He didn't know how long he walked like this, stumbling through the thick cloud, colliding with walls, walls that surrounded and engulfed him in a maddening labyrinth. Choking, no air, _can't breathe._

The light in his torch flickering was the last thing he saw as his world spun and faded into black.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The smoke was gone, when he opened his eyes.

The clock in his HUD had long since frozen. It could have been hours, maybe it had been. But the smoke was gone. He could breathe, that was all that mattered. For the moment.

The light in his helmet was completely out. No amount of switching it off and on again could fix it. And as he reached for the torch hooked to his belt, all he could think about was Christopher begging him to take it. _He knew. The bastard, he knew._

It flickered on, penetrating the darkness. It barely shone a foot in front of him, but at least he could see his own goddamn feet. His feet, stretched out in front of him, legs sprawled on the ground and his back pressed firmly against the cold stone wall. As he pulled himself up to stand, every slight movement echoed throughout the halls, in its dead silence. The sound of his stumbling footsteps became the only thing that reassured him that he had not gone completely deaf, as when he was still, there was nothing. Not even his own heart, which would thunder in his ears; nothing.

His footsteps were messy. Loud, thud after thud as his boots hit the floor, heavy and weak. His vision twisted and turned with each step, even as he took in the magically clean air, he wheezed under his helmet. He did not care to think about how he survived, how the smoke had not choked him dead. The only thoughts in his mind were to march on, and to continue marching on until his legs would give out beneath him.

But he did not make it far. For soon enough his vision became so warped that he could not help but fall against the wall, willing, begging for the spinning to stop, stop, stop, like a hurricane within his mind it spun and spun, uprooting his senses and twisting them to naught but his own fear thundering through his heart like lightning. Loud, like a screaming in his head, a cold and calculated scream within the very confines of his mind that became louder and louder with each passing moment, until finally...

It stopped. All at once, with a light flickering in the distance. A hushed whisper penetrating the silence which was suddenly no longer too much to bear. Try as he might be could not make a sound to alert whoever lurked beyond the darkness that consumed him. So he raised his arm above his waist and slammed as hard as he dared his beskar vambrace against the stone-cold masonry. The sound echoed, resounded, and the light flickered at him, brighter now. He continued to slam it against the wall, not caring about how much his arm protested with screaming pain, just desperate for the sight of another face.

As the torchlight grew closer, he began to make out a single figure. And then they stopped, abruptly, just before their form became visible. They called out, in a strained tearful and female voice.

"Who's there?"

Din tried to respond, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper. Still leaning on the wall, he used it to pull himself closer, but the figure stepped back.

"Declare yourself!" they called again, and it was-

Samantha! He recognised it, he did, that distinct posh accent and the ever so slight rasp. It was her.

"It's me," he tried, "It's me." He pushed himself off the wall, but he fell, and she came rushing forward, catching him with surprising strength before he clattered to the concrete.

"It's you!" she exclaimed. "It's you, it's you!"

"Sam," Din rasped. "Was... looking."

"Why are you here? Why are you-"

"Looking for you, looking for Ivana."

"Oh my god."

She rested him against the wall, his legs sprawled out on the ground.

"Where is she?" he demanded. "Ivana, where is she?"

"I don't know. I-I don't- we got separated. There was smoke, and I ran, and then she was gone!"

He coughed loudly into his helmet, a deep guttural choking cough, over and over, a fire spreading through his chest, his lungs. He clawed at his throat, wheezing, unable to catch his breath, in his panic he gripped the helmet with one hand and flung it at the ground with a deafening bang of metal meeting stone.

"Fuck," he hissed, _"Fuck!"_

Her hand rested on his right pauldron, hovering over him. Her long hair, usually smooth and shiny, now dirty and matted, cascading over her shoulders.

"Are you okay? Are you alright?"

"I can't fucking breathe," he wheezed.

"Like- _actually?" _She kneeled by his side, concern and fear etched into her expression. "Because I don't know CPR, I skipped that class in school, I thought it was stupid and also embarrassing, and-"

He scrambled onto his hands and knees, violently hacking out his lungs, dry coughing over and over into the concrete. Sam's hand gently caressing his back, with the occasional pat, in his frenzied pained state he couldn't tell her to stop. So he coughed, and wheezed, for longer than he cared to count, until finally it faded and he sat back up against the wall with deep shaky breaths that rattled in his chest.

"Tha's not good," he slurred, "Tha's not good. I need fresh air."

"Well, well you had to have come from somewhere, right? Right? D'you remember-"

"No," he coughed into the nook of his elbow.

"Oh."

"There was smoke." Slowly, he used the wall to pull himself to his feet, swaying for a moment before straightening up and inhaling deeply. "I couldn't see, and then I passed out." His voice, hoarse and raspy. _More than usual, at least, _he thought bitterly.

He turned to Sam, who had bent down to pick up his helmet. He took it from her with a quiet thank you and placed it back over his head.

"How long have you been down here?" he asked, trying once again the light on the side of his helmet. Nothing. Biting back a sigh, he switched back on the torch Christopher had given him.

"I don't know," she replied, in a strange hoarse whisper. Afraid. "Ivana tried to make a run for it, and they chased us down here. I want to say a, a couple of days. I don't know."

"Food? Water?"

No response. Just a resigned sigh. _That's a no, then._

"What about you?" she asked.

Din picked a direction and took to it, knowing it led to nowhere but not willing to stay put.

"A few hours, at most."

They continued their walk in silence. Solemn, sad, but no longer lonely and suffocating. That was something, at least.

At least he wouldn't die alone.

He never thought about it much. Dying. It was inevitable, it would come for everyone eventually. At some point during his youth he'd just accepted that he wasn't going to grow old. Most didn't, after the purge. He hadn't expected to live to forty, and he knew he wasn't going to reach fifty. But then there was the kid, and he had to keep himself alive for the kid, everything he did was for the kid. But even then...

Christopher's voice echoed in his mind, his piercing blue eyes burning through Din's visor. _"I don't want to die," _he'd cried, with a voice three octaves higher than usual. Panic, true fear. Din had seen that same fear in his bounties, but never thought of it.

They didn't want to die, but he killed them.

And now, he realised, with a certain degree of terror, that he didn't want to die, either.

Their footsteps echoed beneath them, bouncing off walls and back into their ears. Their torches their only source of light, only barely enough to watch their own feet. Everything looked the same, every corner, every wall. Stonemasonry, cold and bland. The heat from before was gone, that suffocating heat, and now even under his armour he shivered. Deep, deep underground, he knew, somehow, he knew, that the further they travelled, the deeper it became.

At one point Sam grabbed onto his elbow, tightly with one hand. He didn't tell her to let go. Couldn't bring himself to, with her shivering body and clattering teeth beside him. A shiver not just from the cold, but from fear. A deep, deep fear, of something that was surely there and yet what they couldn't see.

He knew. There were no extra pairs of footsteps, there were no shadows, no indication of any other presence but he knew. Eyes on the back of his head, thousands of them, watching, lying in wait.

They were being followed.

Deep inside he knew there was no ordinary man behind them.

And yet it brought no harm to them. Simply a quiet observer.

He stopped at the end of a long hallway, his breath caught in his throat. Breathing easier now, but still wishing for fresh air and sunlight on his face. Sam stopped too, clinging for dear life to his arm. She opened her mouth to speak, but quickly Din held up a hand to shush her, and said, in a harsh whisper,

"Listen."

He waited. Sam held her breath.

Din lowered his arm, slowly, carefully. He levered it over his blaster, and despite himself he couldn't stop the tremble plaguing his hand.

He began to walk, and Sam with him, but slow, and steady, so quiet that not even their footsteps could be heard in the echoing chamber.

"Sam," he began, speaking only in a harsh whisper. "When I say run, you run. Do you understand?"

Silence, then, "There's something behind us."

"Yes."

They walked. And they walked, slow and cautious, their silent stalker lurking far behind but ever-present. Din was far too accustomed to the feeling of being watched. But this was different. It was wrong. The observer did not attack, but it was not kind. Curious, perhaps, there was an air of it. But when its curiosity was satiated...

It. Strange, how he simply knew it wasn't a man. A feeling in the air, a sense of knowing. It wasn't right. It was wrong. Perhaps it had been pulled from its reality, too. Perhaps it was just as lonely and just as scared.

"Din," came Sam's voice. Strained. She sniffled. "I want to go home."

His attempt to hide the tremble in his voice was in vain. "Me too."

Funny, though, how his image of 'home' no longer consisted of the Crest, and the stars. But of a soft bed, in his room, with his hands in Omera's hair. Hair that smelled like Pedro. They used the same shampoo, after all.

"I want Mama. And Papa." Sam sniffled once more and Din saw out the corner of his eye her hand come up to wipe away tears. "I hate this. I hate it all. This is not fair."

"I know." Perhaps, usually, he would say, _"life isn't fair." _But he couldn't. "I'm sorry," he said instead.

"I'm hungry. I'm tired, I'm-"

The torches flickered out.

Both of them, simultaneously, with a pathetic whimper.

Din tried his night vision. Nothing. Sam's clutch on his arm became deathly tight, her shaking worsening by the second and beginning to panic, hyperventilate.

Black. A void. Nothing could be seen, not even his own hand two inches from his face. Nothing. They stood, deathly still and silent, waiting for the thing behind them to make its move.

"They're just," Sam started, a whisper as quiet as a mouse, "They're just bad torches, right?"

"No."

Christopher, holding out that stupid torch, knowing, knowing, _knowing._

"We need to keep walking," he whispered, suppressing his anger, _for now_. "Do not let go of my arm, do you understand?"

There was but a squeak of agreement as her grip on him tightened.

He could see nothing. Not even as his eyes began to adjust. He dragged his feet slowly across the concrete, one arm held in front like a blind old man who's lost his cane. He felt tempted to fire his blaster, if only for temporary light, but knew it would be to no avail. So they went on, not daring to say a word despite the comfort talking brought.

Beside him, Sam's heavy laboured breathing, the only sound other than his own heart or the rattle in his chest when he exhaled. They shivered, too, as they ventured into the deep and the dark, the air around them grew colder and colder until even in the darkness he could see his breath against his visor. Sam, cold, tired, hungry, thirsty, and so frightened...

He wished he could help. He wanted to, with her shaking body pressed so hard against his from the terror of it all. But how could he? What comfort could he bring?

He drifted sideways until he met a wall. It would do, he decided, as his legs ached to rest. He guided Sam to it and slid down. She did not hesitate to follow. How long had they been walking? Perhaps it had been hours. Perhaps days.

It didn't matter anymore.

She pressed against him, shivering and shaking, teeth clattering in the freezing temperatures. Slowly with his free arm he unclasped his cape and draped it over where he guessed her knees would be. There was no sound but a small squeaky hum, which he took as a weak thank you.

"Could- could really use that fire right about now," he spoke into the silence, no longer bothering with the whisper. Sam tensed up beside him. "For legal reasons, that was a joke," he sighed. "To whoever's listening, I guess. I know you're fuckin' out there. Gonna show yourself, coward?"

"Stop," Sam squeaked.

"I'd rather die fighting than from hypothermia."

"Don't say that, please, please."

"It's that or starvation. Thirst, if we're lucky."

Sam sniffled loudly. Din felt the tug of the cape as she pulled it closer to her body.

"I wanted to grow old," she said. "I wanted to get married, and have babies, and grow old. I wanted stupid Christmas dinners, and, and I wanted to complain about politics, and, I wanted to dance around my stupid brother for the rest of my life." She leaned into him further, resting her head on his shoulder pauldron. "It's not fair. I'm going to die here, and it's not _fucking_ fair."

She cried.

He listened. He wished he could do more. But staring out into the black, a feeling of dread and hopelessness settled in his chest, his stomach. All he could do was hold her hands, keep them warm. At some point he took off his gloves and gave them to her instead, but he hardly remembered it. He could feel it settling in, that gross, draining sensation. He was forgetting things, his own body feeling lost and distant.

He fell asleep. Or maybe he didn't, it was difficult to tell. Perhaps he was already dreaming. Maybe the injury on Nevarro put him into a coma. Or maybe it was some sick iteration of the afterlife.

It was Sam who pulled him out of it, in the end, just as his mind began to slip. She sat up, and the jolt of movement tugged him away from the new reality being created in his mind. Now it was black again. And he wasn't shivering anymore.

"We need to keep walking," she whispered. "We need to."

"Wha's the point," he slurred. "Coulda been days. Further we go, more lost we get."

He felt her stand, then her foot nudge his leg.

"Please. I have a good feeling," a lie, "so, so we need to keep going."

He looked up at her, even though he couldn't see her. He imagined her pale face, with those pale eyes, staring down at him with despair.

So he stood, though his mind spun, grasped her hand and continued their walk.

"Talk to me?" Sam spoke softly. "Please."

"Not much to talk about." Too tired and too cold.

"Just- just, anything. Please, please, I can't stand the silence, please."

Din thought for a moment. His mind was muddled and slow, but maybe, maybe there'd be something, maybe.

"My... kid," he began, clearing his throat. "My son."

Silence, for a moment. "You miss him?" she asked.

"...yeah."

"He probably misses you. Wherever he is."

_I don't even know if he's alive._

Didn't want to think about it. The idea, of losing the kid, his son, his son, his _son... _beyond simply not having him, the mere thought of his child dead or dying, waiting for a father that would never return...

"I can almost _hear_ your thoughts," Sam sighed. "Stop thinking them."

"It's difficult not to."

"Your baby's out there. I know it. Safe and sound, you'll see."

_You can't know that. _But he was too tired to refute. Too tired to bother arguing.

They met another wall. Din took to the left, but there was a wall there, too. So he went right, and... there was more wall. Stupid stone masonry, sitting there, mocking him.

"Dead-end," he grumbled. "Shit."

"...What do we do?"

Din turned back to face the endless void.

Something was in it. He knew, he could _feel _it, it's watchful eyes. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Did it control the walls? Perhaps. Maybe the dead-end was new. Maybe it was forcing him to turn back.

_No. _He wasn't going to walk into it willingly. If it wanted him, if it wanted her, it would come straight to them.

"We stay here. Try to get some rest."

"It's too cold."

"We don't have much choice."

But as he bent down, there was a prickling sensation on his leg. Strange, subtle, like an itch. But it wasn't an itch. It moved, under the fabric of his pants, up, and up, and up. He shook his leg violently and whatever had been there fell out onto the concrete. In that moment he wished more than ever that the damned lights worked and he could see what it was. _Probably just a bug, _he thought. _A fly_

"Din?"

Sam's voice, laced with concern, echoed from where she stood.

"Din," she said again, with more urgency, "Din."

"_What?_" he turned to the direction of her voice and was met with a bright, blinding light. The torch held in her hand shone at him, working again. "The torch?"

The light shook with her hand. Her face illuminated by the single beam revealed a deeply disturbed and terrified expression.

"_Look._"

She directed the torch to the ground with her single trembling hand, and in the light revealed hundreds, or even thousands, of spiders, smothering a heap of something on the ground, something he could only assume...

"Sam, we need to go."

She was already at his side. "_What is it?_" she cried softly, asking questions she already knew the answer to.

"We need to go. Go. Go!"

Perhaps it was the heat that convinced him to run. A temperature slowly rising beneath his suit and in the air, hotter and hotter. He didn't need to ask what had happened to that boy. The heat told him. So he ran. With his hand clasped tightly around Sam's and nothing but the single beam of light from her torch to lead the way.

He ignored the third pair of footsteps echoing loudly behind them. If Sam noticed, she didn't say a word. She didn't need to.

He lost track of time, sprinting through the endless maze. Took twists and turns he never took before. But the heat continued to climb, and whatever was behind him did not let up, so he continued to run, even as his chest burned and his legs ached. Breathing becoming more difficult than it already had been, and Sam, poor Sam, sobbing loudly behind him, frantically muttering to herself in a language Din didn't care enough to identify.

When they found another dead end, he cried. Pressed up against the wall, clutching Sam's hand so tight that it could break. As the footsteps grew closer, they became slow, until they were but a steady walk.

Some part of him wanted to turn off the torch and let himself be taken in the darkness. He didn't want to know what it was. He didn't want the last image in his mind to be of a creature from the very depths of- what was it? Hell.

But the other part of him was too afraid to be surrounded by darkness. So he watched with terror, waiting for the thing to come into view, Sam's head buried into his neck.

But what came into their line of sight was not a monster. No demon creature, but a boy. A young boy, couldn't be any older than twenty, and yet...

"Who are you?" Din demanded, trying and failing to keep the tremble out of his voice.

The boy stood there for a moment, in silence, stared down at his battered shoes then looked back up again.

"I want to go home," he said. British accent, soft voice.

"Don't we all, kid, don't we fuckin' all. What's your name?"

The boy took a step back.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Slowly Din pushed himself off the wall. "I want to go home, too. We all want to go home."

"My name?" the boy questioned. "My name. I don't... I don't..." tears filled his eyes. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know..."

"That's okay. Calm down, kid, calm down. It's okay. How long have you been here?"

The boy stared at him. It shouldn't have been unsettling, the way that those cold eyes knew exactly where to look to meet Din's gaze.

"I don't know. I've been waiting, I've been waiting for him, he said he'd come back but he left me here. He said I couldn't, he said I couldn't leave, I tried and I couldn't."

"Who? Who left you?"

The boy squinted. Confused. "Tall?"

"...Christopher?"

His mouth fell into an O. "You know him," he whispered. "You know him."

"Chris was down here," Sam whispered. "There must be a way out."

"Kid." Din stepped forward, holding out his hand. "Do you know the way out?"

A blank stare. "Yes?"

Hope. "Can you lead us?"

But then a scowl. "You'll leave. You'll leave and I can't leave and I'll be alone again."

"Why can't you leave, kid? Why can't you leave?"

The boy stepped forward, further into the light. Din could see more of his features. Pale, dirty-blond hair, unkempt and knotted and covering his face. A faint stench. He supposed it was inevitable, being underground so long. But... strange. He wore clothes that would have been better suited for the middle-ages, brown and tattered.

"I can't leave," the boy whispered. "I can't leave at all. It wants me here so I have to stay."

"What wants you here?"

The boy tilted his head. "The darkness. The labyrinth. This place."

"Okay." Din took a deep breath. "Why? Tell me why it wants you."

The boy said nothing, simply held out his hand. Pale and dirty, dusty. His clothes smothered in cobwebs. Din reached for the hand, slow and cautious, his other still firmly grasping Sam's but ready to snatch his blaster at any given moment. He reached, and his hand closed around...

Nothing.

Din stumbled back. The boy stared.

"Don't you see?" he squeaked. "Don't you see? And now you're afraid. They're all afraid. And then they die. Christopher... Christopher escaped. He wasn't afraid, he saw me die. But then he left me. He said he would come back to help but I don't remember his face, he left me."

The cobwebs made sense. So did the stench, one Din couldn't identify before but now that he knew it couldn't have been anything else.

"What happened?" he rasped.

He didn't believe in ghosts.

And yet.

The boy's hand fell to his side. "Desolation."

_Desolation. _He recalled Christopher's face, speaking those words. _Desolation._

"What's that?"

"She, she..." but the boy... the corpse? shook his head. "She _killed _me. There was so much smoke, and then, it was hot. It was so hot. And there was screaming and it was me and then I was dead and Christopher was crying and very scared. I wanted to help him. He didn't like the spiders. They didn't like him, they chased him, and I helped."

The corpse's expression darkened.

"I helped and he left me. He left."

"He had to," Din croaked. "He has a family."

"Yes. Yes, I-" the corpse ran a hand through his matted hair. "I remember. His wife. She was here, too, I remember... but they were separated. I helped him find her again."

"You seem to like helping." It was Sam who spoke. "You like to help?"

She let go of Din's hand, stepping closer to the corpse. "So you can help us. You can show us the way out."

The corpse stared at her. "You'll leave me. I can't leave but you can."

"But, but, maybe that's your purpose. Maybe your purpose is to show the way out. And maybe, when you help enough people, you can go home."

The corpse tilted his head to one side, eyes widened. "Home?"

Sam nodded. "Yes. If you help us, you can go home."

It was a lie. A bold and dangerous lie. He didn't want to get the corpse angry. But what choice did they have?

When faced with ghosts, common sense stopped mattering.

"Show us the way out," Din said, "and I promise you can go home."

"You promise."

"Yes."

The corpse considered this. His eyes lingered on Din's chest plate. Finally, after what had felt like hours, it nodded.

"It's not far. The labyrinth tricks you. It changes and it changes to make you lost but it is small. There is a pattern. Follow me."

Grasping Sam's hand once more, and pinching himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming, he marched on.

The corpse walked at a brisk pace, but with a terrible limp. The more Din stared at it, the more he wished he hadn't looked at all. Gaping wounds smothered by spider webs. Scorched clothes and hair. A fly buzzing around his head. _Is the fly a ghost, too? _It was an interesting thought.

"You're the first ghost I've ever met," Din broke the silence.

"I was surprised," said the corpse. "I was. I didn't choose it, I didn't. But... but I think I know why."

"Why?" asked Sam.

"I wasn't real. I think. I don't know, memories are, are strange. But I wasn't real, my body... I'm not from here."

"Different dimension?"

"Is that it...? Maybe. It feels different, it all feels wrong. Things don't work the same here. So when I died, I was a ghost, because this place didn't know what else to do. I didn't exist, I was already dead. His name was Cole." Then the corpse laughed. Melodic, and genuine. "My name is Cole. I took it from him when he died the first time, and now... I died again. Now I can't bleed. I could bleed before. I wish I could still bleed."

"...I don't understand," said Din. Perhaps it was the last remaining symptoms of hypothermia that he'd narrowly escaped, or the hunger, or maybe he was simply having a stroke. Either way, he couldn't understand a word.

"Most don't. Solas would. He always understands. But he's not here. I wish he was here. Does he think about me...? Oh."

Cole froze.

"Here. You see? The way out. I helped."

The relief that swept over Din was almost enough to send him collapsing into a heap on the floor. He recognised the hallway, the long hallway, they'd come full fucking circle. The bookshelves, the webs. Never in his life did he ever think he'd be relieved to see those dead spiders.

He followed Cole's lead, unwilling to overtake him, someone who knew the halls so well, but... the ghost was cautious. Slow. Din remembered how long it took him to get through the hall even at a brisk pace, so with each drawn out step his anxiety and impatience only heightened.

But Cole knew what he was doing.

He'd just have to wait.

"These books," Sam sighed. _Filling the silence._ "So old. I love old books, but... these... make me uncomfortable."

She strayed away from them to walk alongside the shelves. Din lit up his own torch and watched her with a cautious eye as she ran her finger along the shelves.

"I thought this place was a prison or something, that's what Ivana said. Why so many books?"

Cole glanced at her briefly then shrugged. "Solas liked books," he said simply. More to himself than to anyone else, though Din couldn't help but wonder who 'Solas' was. Someone from Cole's reality, perhaps.

But he froze, very suddenly. Cole halted in his tracks entirely and simply stood there, still as a statue, his arms held awkwardly at his side and one leg meticulously placed in front of the other. His head bowed, but tilted, as though listening for something.

"Something wrong?" Din stepped forward to place a hand on Cole's shoulder, but as it went straight through, a chill ran down his spine. _Right. _He'd forgotten.

_Fuckin' ghosts. Why did it have to be ghosts?_

Somehow, he wasn't surprised anymore.

"We should move faster," Cole whispered. "Yes. They don't like you. Let's move faster."

Neither Din nor Sam had the opportunity to ask what he meant before he was zooming down the hall, and neither of them cared to question it either. They followed quickly suite, not even daring a moment to spare a concerned glance.

"How's your breathing?" Sam asked in a harsh whisper.

"Better. Lungs probably have scarring, though."

"D'you think you'll need the hospital?"

"...Maybe. We'll see, I- I'll talk to Pedro about it."

Didn't particularly fancy a trip to the hospital, but it was better than _dying, _at least. Still... it was risky. They'd need to be careful, keep things hushed up, he couldn't risk being seen by too many people, if they saw him, if they realised... Pedro would need to deal with the tabloids, more than he already did. Granted he was doing a damn good job of the whole "keep quiet and they'll get bored" tactic but some things couldn't just be ignored or hushed up. He was already treading thin water and he had a feeling that the "separated at birth" excuse wasn't going to hold up. And then if _Robert _saw...?

He didn't want to think about it.

"Cole," Sam began, with an air of confidence that made Din want to put his hand over her mouth to shut her up, "How did you die?"

He wished he had. But it was too late now.

"I was already dead when I died," came the response. Cryptic. Should he have expected any less from a ghost? A fucking _ghost. _"But," Cole continued, "Down here, I was... can't think. Can't breathe. Crying, screaming, afraid, in pain. And then it stopped, and Christopher was shaking. He screamed. He cried for hours. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He was so afraid, and I wanted to help, but I was dead for the second time and that was confusing."

"But _how? How _did you die?" Sam crossed her arms over her chest. Din couldn't find the heart to shush her, not now with his own curiosity piqued.

"There was the lightless flame. Desolation decided I was _wrong,_" he spat, "so she killed me. I think, I think... Christopher said I boiled. That was what he called it."

"The heat," Din murmured.

Cole came to another abrupt stop. He turned around slowly, looking straight past Din and Sam and into the dark void that they'd just come from.

"Listen," he said. "Can you hear?"

"Hear what?" asked Din. He hovered his hand over his blaster.

Cole looked straight at him, but his eyes were distant and glazed. "I think we should run. You can't hear them, but I can. I can always hear them. But now they're loud and they don't like you. Nothing here likes you, because you're wrong."

Without so much as a warning, Cole pivoted on the spot and sprinted down the hall, Din didn't stop to question why, he snatched Sam's hand and sprinted after him. Their footsteps echoed loudly, Din's legs moving as fast as he could will then yet still he couldn't catch up with Cole's unnaturally fast pace, he grabbed Sam's arm and tugged her ahead of him.

"Go," he panted, "Run, run!" Legs aching. So tired. Out of fucking practise. He unhooked his blaster. "Go! I'll only slow you down." Armour so heavy. He knew this would happen.

Sam nodded and continued her sprint forward, faster and faster, running on pure adrenaline. Cole's yells could be heard up ahead, but Din couldn't will his legs to go any faster. Like something was holding him back, a weight on his body, exhaustion or hunger, he didn't know, but he was lagging behind too much and Sam was nearly out of his line of sight.

Worst of all, he could hear it. The distant scuttle. He knew what it was, and somehow he also knew he'd be powerless to stop them. Cole yelled again, something about _faster, please, _and _nearly there, _but even as he tried to will his legs forward he only felt them slow. How long had he been running? But he couldn't stop, he couldn't stop, so close, so very close, he-

-ran headfirst into a wall and clattered to the ground.

"No!" came Cole's desperate cry, "No, no! You weren't fast enough, you-" footsteps on the other side. "They want to scare you. If you stay calm, they'll get bored, they'll leave, they can't hurt you if you stay calm. Don't move!"

"Cole?" Din pulled himself to his feet. "Cole?"

"You have to wait. It will end, I promise, just wait!"

"Cole!"

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you, I knew and I didn't warn you, but you just need to wait. I'll keep your friend safe!"

_"Cole!_"

*******

No response. Dead quiet. He pressed his forehead against the cold wall. He could hear them, in the distance. That scuttle. _Just need to wait._

He stood up tall. Clenched his fists. No use firing at them, he just needed to wait...

They found his legs. Like a million itches, prickles. Pins and needles. He shut his eyes tight and thinned his lips. Just needed to wait. _How long do I need to fucking wait?!_

His thighs. His torso. His arms, his hands. His neck. Eight-legged things - for surely spiders brought from the dead were no longer spiders - crawling over every square inch of his body, slowly making their way under his helmet, he did not dare to open his eyes. They encased him like a cocoon. _Just need to wait._

_I just want to go home._

_This was a fucking mistake._

Hundreds, thousands. He felt them. And still more climbed up and up. From the floor, to his feet, up and up...

Cole said to wait. Cole said they would leave if he waited. But they weren't fucking leaving. _I just want to go home. _What about the wall? Would it let him through? There was a pattern, Cole had said so, how? How? _How?_

Omera, her warm embrace, _think about Omera. Push down the urge to scream. _Her soft hands, soft hair, gentle voice, accepting, she accepted him, she loved him and she accepted him. Did she love him? She had never said so but he felt it, in the way her fingers travelled along his scars, they way her voice wavered when she asked him not to go, not to go, why did he go? _Shit._

And Butterscotch, Butterscotch, that cat, that beautiful cat, warm, loved him even if she hated the baths, cuddled up to him in bed, in his lap, woke him up when she was hungry and he couldn't even find it in his heart to be mad even at the earliest of hours. Soft to the touch, fuzzy, just like _spiders, _fuzzy legs all over him, waiting for him to give in, to scream, cry-

And Pedro, Pedro, kind and accepting, generous Pedro, soft eyes that didn't plague him with pity, trying to understand, trying his _best, _never mad, always stressed but willing to give and give and give and give...

The wall melted away, like it was never there at all, like he had imagined it, and Din wasted no time. He sprinted, faster than he'd ever sprinted in his life, Cole by his side yelling apologies, Din found the light at the end of the tunnel and with it came relief as Sam, screeching, whacked him over and over again with his own cape, effectively sending the spiders flying back into the unforgiving void. She whacked him and he whacked himself, threw off his helmet and banged it against the wall until every last spider was either dead or had bolted.

*******

He didn't care enough to be embarrassed by the fact that he'd pissed himself, and really, that probably said a whole lot about the situation. Worst of all, he didn't even know when it had happened.

They leapt up the accursed stairway and threw open the door, and as the light hit their faces they collapsed to the floor with great cries of relief.

They'd escaped. They had, they escaped. Christ, he could fucking leave, he was okay, traumatised and exhausted and hungry but alive, and Sam was, too. She grabbed him, both of them kneeling on the floor, and flung her arms around his neck.

"We're okay," she sobbed, "We're okay!"

He didn't know how long they sat there. He didn't care. They would have remained for hours had it not been for the distinct lack of Cole's voice.

They both stood, glancing back over at the doorway and the door itself now smashed to pretty pieces. Cole stood in it, only barely concealed by the darkness, he looked out at them with dismay.

"I can't leave," he rasped. "I helped and I still can't leave."

Sam clutched Din's arm tight.

"A-Are you sure?" she stammered. _The consequences of the lie._

"You said I could go home. You promised." Cole stared straight at Din. Straight into his eyes, without the visor. He couldn't tear them away.  
"You promised."

Din took a step back. "I'm sorry, Cole."

"No. No, you're leaving. You're leaving just like he did but you promised I could go home. You lied to me!"

"Cole."

"I just want to go home! I want to see Solas, Varric, I want to help people but not here, not here, you lied!" He shook in anger and fear. "Please don't leave me," he sobbed, "Please don't leave me."

"We need to go, Cole," Sam whispered. "We don't know how to-"

"Don't leave me!"

Guilt, dread, a giant mixture of every negative emotion. Cole, desperately pleading for them to stay, but a ghost. Dead. The living mattered more, surely, surely, surely it was justified.

As they disappeared out of the corridor, Cole's desperate cries coalescing into screams of betrayal, he knew it wasn't.

_I'm sorry._

He didn't feel relieved anymore. Not even as the cries faded out. Sam's quiet sniffling and her tight grip on his arm was enough to keep him from burying himself in an undeserved relief.

They ignored all else. Made beelines from each door to the next until, finally, _finally, _Christopher and Ivana's yells invaded their ears. Hardly time to react, barely time to understand what was going on before they were sprinting to the exit, he'd barely made it out the front door before he was launched forward, flying through the air, he crashed to the concrete, pain erupted throughout his left arm. The building blazed in a raging fire, fragile stone walls collapsing to the ground from the inside out, and despite it all, despite the ringing in his ears and the screaming pain, and Ivana hovering over him with fear in her eyes, his last thought before his world turned to black was of Pedro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's play a game called "how many fandoms can I fit in one story"
> 
> Disclaimers:  
Desolation/"The Lightless Flame" is not my character, neither is Cole. They are both from two separate fandoms. When it comes to interdimensional travel, anything is possible :)
> 
> submit commissions to support me on [ fiverr!!! ](https://www.fiverr.com/share/mYmx8V)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/QxdaPYsMVn) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)


	45. "I'm hungry."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you hear it hanging on the wind?  
Can you feel it underneath your skin?  
You've got to go on, further than you've ever gone  
You've got to run far from all you've ever known

13tb April 2020

He woke up in a room he didn't recognise.

In most circumstances, perhaps he would have panicked. But he was warm, comfortable, in a soft bed with a soft pillow and heavy blankets. The walls a pale brown with little pink flowers painted all over, the ceiling a light cream, and on it sat an old-fashioned light that illuminated a warm yellow glow.

Next to him, however, to his left, in a leather armchair with his face buried into a thick pillow, rested Christopher, his chest slowly rising and falling with each deep breath. Fast asleep.

He used the bedside table to leverage himself into an upright position, biting his tongue to hold back a cry as screaming pain shot through his left arm like electricity. 

He glared down at it and saw that it was in a sling.

_Great_. Just what he'd needed, after all he went through. It had been set properly, at least, but by who?

Slowly he manoeuvred himself off of the bed. He no longer wore his armour, it sat on top of a chest of drawers on the opposite side of the little confined room, along with his helmet. Nor was he wearing his usual underclothes, but an oversized, silky purple shirt and baggy sweatpants. The mere thought of someone undressing him and changing him into new clothes while he was unconscious was more than just 'uncomfortable', but... he wouldn't complain. They had given him a bed, reset his broken bone. Whoever 'they' were.

His bare feet met the soft carpet. For a long moment he considered allowing Christopher to sleep. He probably needed it in any case, but... sighing to himself, he leaned forward and tapped his shoulder.

Nothing. He tried again, rougher this time, but still he didn't stir. Din shifted himself forward, only narrowly balancing off the edge of the bed, and gave Christopher's shoulder a shake. His eyes snapped open and he jumped in his seat, slapping Din's hand away with a yelp.

"Oh," he breathed, "Fuck. You're awake?"

"How long was I out?"

Christopher rubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeves, a cream-coloured woollen sweater. "I dunno. What time is it...?"

"I'm asking you," Din sighed.

Grumbling to himself, Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flip-phone similar to Peri's. He read off the time with squinted eyes.

"Six? Six something? Fuck, I think I need glasses."

"AM or PM?"

"AM. I think... it was around midnight when, when you escaped."

Din stared over at his armour, polished and shiny as though nothing had ever happened to it. Like everything he'd just been through was a fever dream.

He wished it had been.

He wished it had never happened at all, that he'd made the right fucking decision and _stayed home._

But then, if he had, what would have happened to Sam? Perhaps she would have met the same fate as Cole.

_Cole. _So young, too young, _oh gods, I'm so sorry, Cole. _He'd left, and Cole had screamed, cried, so afraid, so afraid. _There was nothing we could do._

And then running, and yelling, being launched forward onto the cold, hard concrete. An explosion, a raging flame, a splintering _crack. _Stupid useless bones.

Chris was staring at him. Waiting, for something. Something Din couldn't discern.

"Where am I?" Din asked.

Christopher sighed. He used the armrest to push himself to his feet with a grunt, then reached for something that had been rested against the wall beside him. A long, thin, walking stick. He leaned on it heavily.

"Friend's house," he said. "Safer here."

"And who's your friend, then?"

"He used to be real involved with this sort of," he waved his hand, frowning, "stuff. I trust 'im with my life, him and his husband. Are you hungry?"

_Starving. _But Din didn't move to stand. "Why're you using a walking stick?"

A soft chuckle. Forced and bitter. Christopher glared at the wall for a second then shook his head with a frown.

"Dunno if you remember, but I been stabbed."

Right. _Yes. _After everything, he'd quite frankly forgotten.

"But the bacta should've dealt with that."

"Maybe. But it still hurts. Or- or maybe I just think it does, I dunno. Psychosomatic or some shit."

He paused to yawn, not even bothering to cover his mouth, then made for the door.

"I'm 'ungry. Are you hungry?"

Din didn't give a response, but Chris left anyway with the door wide open, muttering things under his breath and limping with the cane. Click, click, click as it hit the floorboards. Click click click.

Din slowly rose to his feet and stumbled through the room to the door.

He paused only to stare at himself in the little table mirror propped up next to his armour.

A square bandaid on his forehead, and a smaller rectangle one just below his bottom lip. _More scars for the collection._

Shaking his head and biting back a sigh he reached for the doorknob with his right hand, cursing his inability to use his left, and turned it until he heard the soft click. He entered into a very short corridor, which led into a small lounge, with a fireplace, a coffee table, a sofa and a rocking hair. A large window overlooked the front yard, pretty garden with pretty flowers and thick bushes. It wasn't neat by any means, but that made it all the more pleasant to look at. The sun just on the horizon, the pink sky slowly fading to blue.

There was where Christopher stood, leaning heavily to the left with his head tilted so far that his ear nearly touched his shoulder. Din joined him at the window, listened to the birds just barely audible beyond the walls.

"Tell me something," Christopher began, his voice strained and tired. "Tell me. When you-" he shivered. "When you were down there, did you- there was a boy, did you meet him?" A pause. "Was he there?"

Din turned to face him. Briefly he considered denying it entirely, if only to spite him. But that would be cruel. And he deserved to know.

"Cole, you mean."

Chris ducked his head. He sucked in a breath.

"Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah."

"You watched him die."

"He wouldn't stop screaming." A pause. He cleared his throat. "I'm hungry."

He pivoted on the spot and made for another door to their left, but as Din stepped forward and rested his hand on his shoulder he froze in place, visibly tensed under the touch.

"You knew," Din grumbled. "You knew about the labyrinth and you didn't tell me."

"I know." Somehow, Chris' voice fell even deeper as he mumbled. "I have no excuse."

"Please give me one. Give me an excuse so I can rationalise it."

"You can't rationalise it because it wasn't rational." He turned around slowly and Din's hand fell to his side. Their eyes met briefly before both of them simultaneously tore them away. "D'you want anything to eat?"

Trying to change the subject. It was working, apparently, as if on cue, Din's stomach growled. He nodded, but purposefully deepened his frown as if to say, _yes, but I'm not happy about it._

So he followed Christopher through the door and into a long kitchen.

It had white tiling and large windows above the counters, which were lined by at least fifty potted plants, that he could count. Large ones and small ones, growing fruit and flowers, doubling as a makeshift greenhouse. It was... pretty, with the morning sun filtering in as beams of light.

Atop the cold floor, however, sat a large dog bed, and in it rested a large dog, sleeping curled up with its head resting on its paws. Brown and black with pointed ears standing upright. Didn't know the breed, a German something; he'd spent most of his spare time looking at cats.

"She's pretty, isn't she?"

Chris had already pulled two bowls out of the cupboards and a large transparent plastic box with a label on it that read in neat bubble writing, CHRIS F. Just cereal, but after everything he'd been through, even the sight of such a simple breakfast was enough to have Din's mouth watering.

"I guess," he mumbled. "I prefer cats."

"Speak for yourself."

After he had poured two small bowls, he slid one over across the counter to Din.

"Thank you," he said, mixing it around with the spoon. "That box has your name on it."

"Ah. Yes, well- 's not the first time I been here. So... you know."

They ate their respective bowls in silence. Perhaps in any other circumstance, it would have been content, or even comfortable, but with a dark cloud hanging over their heads it was difficult to let down his guard. Chris, balancing the bowl in one hand as he stared out into the garden with that same eerily blank expression he'd bore in the previous day's drive. And Din, shovelling the bland cereal down his throat in a failing attempt to quell the rising nausea in his chest.

They finished their cereal, and loaded those into the dishwasher in silence, too. After this, Christopher bent down to the floor and sat beside the dog. He ran his hand through its fur, gentle, soft.

"I had a dog," he sighed. "Growing up, I mean." When Din didn't respond, he continued, "A big, stupid Irish Setter."

"What was its name?"

"Dog."

"...seriously?"

"In my defense... I was five."

Din tried to imagine a five-year-old Christopher, staring down a puppy and announcing its name to the family; Dog. The image that popped into his mind was far beyond adorable - though he wasn't about to go around admitting it. Instead he joined the man on the cold floor and watched. Watched movement of his hand moving back and forth across the dog's fur, slow and delicate, with the slightest tremor.

"Sam and Ivana," Din whispered into the silence. "Where are they?"

"Safe. Sleeping, at the moment."

"Sam, is she..." Din cleared his throat, took a moment to steady his breathing. "Is she alright?"

Christopher nodded, eyes half-closed.

"And Ivana?"

" 'Sfine. She's fine."

Din continued to stare at the dog, watching its torso rise and fall with each breath. Then, a thought popped into his head, and he stood from where he sat.

"Wait here," he said. "I need you to see something."

He found his way through the lounge and the hallway and back into the bedroom, where he turned to his armour resting on the chest of drawers. There, sat under his chest piece, was the little bag he'd found, a satchel, full of documents and letters. He'd completely forgotten about it in the chaos of the previous night, but now... well.

He had reading to do.

Din travelled back through the house to where Christopher was still sat, absentmindedly petting the dog who had rolled onto its stomach. He kneeled on the floor once again, unclasped the satchel, and emptied all the paper onto the tiles, including the little leatherbound journal.

"I found these," he said, placing them all in one thick pile. "In that building, few rooms over from that labyrinth. I think it's mostly letters, correspondence. You should look."

Din flipped through the journal as Chris picked up a random piece of paper. Mostly skimmed it, paused on pages that he thought might be important, but it seemed more like a personal diary than documentation of the little cult. Most pages were short and simple, to the point, ranging from, _"went after this person" _or _"had pancakes for breakfast"_.

So he closed it again, thinking he would read it more thoroughly later, and watched as Christopher's eyes slowly ran over the page in his hand. As he went, his eyebrows furrowed deeper and his mouth contorted into a grimace.

"Where did you-" at the sound of his raspy, barely audible voice, Chris stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Where did you find these again?"

"Few rooms over from those stairs. What's it say?"

"It's just, uh, it's..." He cleared his throat again, but Din doubted he actually needed to. "Look, I-"

"Tell me," Din growled. "No more secrets."

Christpoher stared at him, mouth hung open and eyes wide. Din stared at his chin, but every now and then found his own eyes flicking up to meet Christopher's deep, ocean blue ones. And each and every time, that same unknown sensation flooded over him like a tidal wave... until he pulled his gaze away, and like it was never there at all, it disappeared.

"It's a, a letter." Christopher swallowed. "From, from someone called Heidi. To Gabriel."

He recognised both of those names. They had both written letters to Abbi, he recalled them vividly.

"But what does it say?"

Chris glanced back down at the letter, then back up at Din. He did this a few times, before inhaling sharply.

"It's in German," he said. "My German isn't, isn't great. Or even good. But it's mostly talking about, uh..." he fiddled with edges, folding them in but not enough to make a crease. "There's a man called Eleis. They're talking about him, and, some sort of plan? I think?"

Din narrowed his eyes and thinned his lips. Chris huffed, frustrated.

"I dunno what else to tell you. Unless you wanna learn fuckin' German, that's all you're getting."

"Fine."

He plucked a random letter off the pile, but this too was in some other foreign language. French, it looked like, he could discern that much from the very little knowledge he had. And signed by another name he recognised.

"Is Eleis... French?"

"...Yeah. Eleis Janvier, he was born there and came here after-"

Like a deer caught in headlights, Chris froze, his eyes widening. Din could practically hear his panicked thoughts, a racing mind. He'd said too much, and now there was no escaping it.

"After what?" Din growled.

"It's nothing-"

"Tell me!"

Perhaps it was the rise in his voice or the glare or simply the way he straightened his back, but Christopher's mouth snapped shut and they delved into an uncomfortable silence. Staring at each other, waiting for someone to speak. It was Din who finally did.

"Look," he began simply, doing his very best to soften his voice. "Look. Like it or not, I'm caught up in this bullshit, too. You're keeping secrets. I get it; I know what it's like. But I can help. I know how to fight. If these are people I need to deal with, I can do that, but only with information. Information that _you _have."

Chris ducked his head to his chest. He wrung his hands in his lap, but it didn't stop them from moving around like a bored school-kid.

"Once you know," he rasped, "you can't un-know. You know?" He looked up again with concern and fear etched into his features. "I didn't want you to help. I didn't want you to get roped up in this. You know about Cole, and Eleis, and Heidi and Gabriel. You killed Abbi, and you're going to know about her, too." He swallowed harshly. He spoke again with a strained voice. "And her brother."

_Her brother._

"A letter said you did something to him."

Just like that, any remaining illusion of composure melted away. Christopher's entire face reddened to a frightful degree, his shoulders dropped, his mouth fell open but no words came out.

"What did you do?" Din prodded. He was only answered with a vigorous shake of the head and heavy breathing. Chris' wide eyes lingered on his hands, which had become white with the force he gripped his own thighs.

Din knew it was dangerous territory. But some part of him, some terrible awful part of him pleaded him to keep going. So he did.

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes," came the response. So simple, so quick, but somehow, it was like the entire weight of the universe weighed down on it. "I don't wanna talk about it. Please."

"Why?"

He was met with only a glare.

"Fine," Din sighed. He began to gather up all the letters and shove them back in the satchel. "If we're done here, I need to go back to Pedro."

"No. No, they're after you. You need to stay here."

"What?"

"Just until we throw them off, it won't be for long, just a little while, maybe one more day, just not now, you can't go back."

"He's right."

They both turned toward the source of the new voice. Female, a heavy accent, one he couldn't quite place. There stood a woman, dark-skinned with white hair cut short. She wore a simple baggy grey shirt with shorts that reached just below her knees. In her hand was a steaming cup of coffee, and in the other, tucked under her arm, was a teddy bear. In her eighties, at least, seventies if he was being generous.

She smiled at them, sweet and kind. "Sorry to intrude. I promise I was not- ah, what is the word? Eavesdropping."

"Elliot," Chris spoke, slowly rising from the floor. It was as though all the tension and fear had left his body entirely, with the way he talked now; airy, light. "You sleep well?"

"Unfortunately not. There was a storm last night, you recall."

"Yes. Yes, it went on for hours."

Din narrowed his eyes at them, fiddling with the strap of the satchel. Christopher hadn't mentioned this woman, only a man and his husband. He pushed the issue to the side, deciding he would confront Chris about it later in private.

"You must be the Mandalorian." Elliot grinned at him, stepping into the room. "I have heard much of you."

_Chris told her about me?_

She continued, "I hope our home is, ah, how would you say it?" She snapped her fingers loudly. "To your liking! Yes."

"It's comfortable," Din mumbled. "Pretty."

"My husband would be pleased to hear it. He is so funny with appearances. Hello, girl..."

She bent down to ruffle the dog's fur.

"Ah, she is tired. An old dog. Maybe later she will be in the mood for play."

Both Din and Chris fell into silence as they watched her load the dishwasher with a few stray cups and turn it on. She hobbled around as you would expect an old lady to, but she wasn't by any means unstable or slow. She stood tall, with confidence and poise.

As the silence, though, began to drag on and became steadily unbearable, Din turned to Chris.

"How is here any safer than at Pedro's house?" A question that had been at the back of his mind, one he originally planned to reserve for later.

Chris swallowed a seemingly very large knot in his throat. "Complicated," he rasped.

"Oh, so dramatic." Elliot heaved a great big sigh. "You are always so dramatic, Christopher. It is not complicated. Here, I will tell you. Eleis pines for my husband. So, he does not bring harm to us. See? All rather simple."

"...what?"

Christopher slowly rose to his feet, using the cane to steady himself.

"They used to date, uh... but they split, probably because Eleis was fuckin' killing people, and he's, you know... salty. About it."

"This would probably mean more to me if I knew who Eleis was."

Silence. Even Elliot didn't cut through it. Christopher fiddled with the hem of his sweater's sleeve. Uncomfortable.

"Sensitive topic?" Din sighed. "Fine."

"No, no, it's just..." Chris buried one hand in his matted hair. He scrunched up his eyes, frustrated and angry. "I didn't want you to be involved in this."

"I guess that's just too bad, then."

Elliot stepped forward, clutching the teddy bear tight to her chest. Her half-full mug left abandoned on the counter.

"It may be best that you ask my husband. When he wakes. He will soon. He knows more than I do. Now... if you will excuse me, I must shower before work."

With that, she left. Hobbled away, out of the kitchen and into the next room, an open dining room, where she then climbed the stairs to the next floor.

Din turned once again to Christopher. "You never said anything about her."

Chris furrowed his eyebrows. "What?"

"You didn't mention her. You said, 'him and his husband'."

Then, something seemed to dawn on him, and his face reddened. "Oh, no, you- no, sorry, I should've said something. Elliot _is_ a man."

"What? No. She's-"

"He's trans."

"Oh."

Din suddenly felt very stupid.

Very stupid indeed, so stupid that his mental slap manifested itself into a real physical one and his own hand flew across his face with a satisfying albeit painful smack.

"Right. Sorry."

Christopher blinked, once, twice, then shook his head. "You're... fine."

They stood in silence. Before Din had a chance to cut through it, though with what, he wasn't entirely sure, Ivana stepped in through the doorway.

She wore blue flowery pyjamas and slippers a size too large for her feet. Her hair was done in a loose messy bun.

"Hi," she simply said, quiet and meek. Tired. "...was going to have breakfast."

"I-I'll make it for you," Chris stammered, already reaching for the cereal box again.

Din now felt rather out of place. Like he was intruding. So he left them there, in the kitchen, and found his way back to the bedroom he'd woken up in. He found his phone rested just next to his helmet.

Needed to call Pedro.

-  
  
  
  


"You sleep well? How're you feeling? D'you think you're gonna have a bath, because I can-"

"I'm fine. Just hungry."

"Right. Yes."

He poured one generous bowl with a shaky hand. Put the milk in after and only narrowly avoided spilling it all over the counter.

"You didn't have to make it for me," she sighed. "I am capable."

"Well. Well, I wanted to. Here."

She took it from his hand with a quiet thank you. But she only managed one spoonful, as midway through swallowing the colour drained from her face. She slammed the bowl back down on the counter then printed from the room, back into the lounge then into the hall. Chris caught up to her just as she flung open the bathroom door and collapsed to the cold tiles, just in time to throw up into the toilet bowl.

"Ivana?"

He knelt down at her side and rested a hand gently on her back.

"It's supposed to be getting _better." _She spat into the bowl. "Stupid sickness, I am so fucking sick of it."

He rubbed circles into her back and she leaned into it, sighing to herself and closing her eyes.

"I get dizzy," she continued. "And when I am not dizzy, I feel sick. And when I am neither of those I am exhausted."

She leaned forward again, gripping the edges of the toilet bowl so tight that her knuckles turned white. Retched into it but nothing came out. Christopher took her hair and held it above her head.

" 'M so tired," she muttered. "So tired. Chris, I just want to sleep. I cannot do this anymore."

He dropped her hair as she leaned back, looking at him through bloodshot eyes.

"This stupid baby is more trouble than it is worth," she sniffled.

Chris reached for her hand, she willingly gave it. He drew little circles into her palm with his thumb.

"D'you mean that?" he mumbled.

Silence. He stared down at their hands and refused to look up. Not until her other hand rose and cupped his jaw, lifting it gently upward so he saw into her eyes.

"You want this baby?" she asked.

"Yes," he rasped. No point dancing around it, no point trying to deny it, she already knew what he was going to say. "Do you?"

She bit her lip. Thought for a moment, still staring into his eyes. Then nodded.

"Yes," she admitted, with a strain in her voice. "But- it's just- it is so much. I am stressed and tired, and- and we cannot look after this baby. You _know _we can't."

_Can't even afford food for ourselves._

"And you... you're sick. And I will not be able to work. And _labour? _I can't."

"So what d'you wanna do?"

She brought his hand up to her lips, pressed them gently against it. Her eyes slid closed.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know. It's your baby, too."

"It's your body."

"It's our lives."

She clasped his hand tightly and stared at him through tears in her eyes. Her head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Chris reached out with his other hand and grabbed the hem of her shirt. He pulled it up slowly over her stomach.

"How far along?" he whispered into the silence.

"I don't know. Three months? Four months?"

"Further than last time." He placed his palm over the subtle curve, as though expecting to feel something. But it was too early for that, he knew this. Still...

"Last time we were on the streets. What if- what if we do not lose it?"

"I'm not gonna live long enough anyway."

He hadn't meant to say it. It had just sort of slipped out, an unfiltered thought in his head. But it was too late, now. Ivana dropped his hand. He removed his other one from her stomach.

"You cannot say that," she rasped, eyes wide and brimming with tears. "You can't."

"Ivana..."

"I'm going back to bed."

"I'm sorry."

She stood abruptly and made for the exit. Chris didn't have time to speak another word before she disappeared into the bedroom, the door closing softly behind her with a click.

_But it's true, though._

Looking at himself in the mirror, he knew it was true.  
He'd save up money for her. It'd be difficult, it had _been _difficult, with rent and everything else, but- a little bit at a time. Maybe it would be enough. For her and that baby. Sam was looking at work, too, she could help, maybe they'd be okay.

Maybe after he was gone, they'd be okay.

He just needed to deal with Eleis before that time came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fact that I posted this chapter the same week that Elliot Page came out as trans is complete coincidence. pls believe me i ain't stealing from him pls
> 
> submit commissions to support me on [ fiverr!!! ](https://www.fiverr.com/share/mYmx8V)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/QxdaPYsMVn) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)


	46. That went well.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reap what you sow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s this? The summary isn’t an Oh Hellos lyric? Blasphemy. 
> 
> This writing is... a bit funky. I didn’t have a lot of fun writing this one. In a bit of a rut. But! I think it should be at least somewhat enjoyable. I hope.

* * *

_"Din? Din is that you? Oh my god."_

"Pedro." Din released a heavy, pent up sigh into the phone's speaker. He closed his eyes, slowly sinking into the bed. "Hi."

"_Chris said there was an explosion, and-_"

"We're fine. We're all okay."

"_He said you broke your arm. Fuck. What happened? He refused to tell me shit_."

"I don't know how much I can say. Can I talk to Omera? Please?"

A brief pause, then, "_Okay. Okay, I'll go get her. Hold on._"

He fell backward onto the bed, his legs dangled over the edge. He put the phone on speaker and rested it on his chest.

"_Din?"_

Like a floodgate, Din's heart filled with joy. It was her, her voice, her sweet and melodic and kind voice. He thought he'd never hear it again, down there in that labyrinth he thought he would simply die without ever hearing her voice ever again, but- she was there.

He didn't bother to hide his sob of relief. "Omera," he whispered. "Hey."

A flutter in his chest, his stomach, heart pounding hard and fast in his ears, _by the gods, I'm in love_.

_"You're okay! Oh, you're okay. I was so worried. I couldn't sleep, I had a terrible dream, and the bed is cold without you, Din, and-_"

"I'm okay, I'm here, please breathe." But this was a hypocritical thing to say, as he'd been holding his breath, too.

"_What happened? Please, tell me what happened_."

"I can't say. Not now, not over the phone. But when I get back- when I get back, I'll explain. I promise."

"_But when will you get back? Where are you?"_

Two questions he hardly knew the answer to, and he said as much. "I got knocked out," he said. "I woke up here. Christopher won't tell me much, I don't think he can."

"_Knocked out? As in unconscious? Are you hurt?"_

"I'm fine. I'm okay, just a few scratches." _And a broken arm._ But he didn't mention that.

"Okay. Alright."

Silence. Din couldn't find the words to speak, and truthfully, he didn't much want to. Most of him wanted to just lie there, with her on the phone, not saying a single word to each other. That would be okay, more than okay. He only wished he were with her physically.

"_Din?_"

"I'm here," he mumbled. "Was just thinking."

"_You're really okay?_"

At this, he paused. Of course he was okay; the arm stung but he'd broken bones before and any other wounds he'd sustained were minor. There was of course the issue with his lungs, all that smoke, but until he was sent into violent coughing fits he was going to assume that it resolved itself.

But he knew that wasn't what she meant.

"I don't... know," he admitted. "I'm shaken, I guess. It was a lot. Is a lot. To think about."

He heard Omera hum. "_I understand. Let me know when you're ready to talk about it."_

"I will." A pause. He closed his eyes, willing the bout of emotion to go away, before remembering how Robert would scold him for it. "Thank you," he rasped. "I'm, uh... I'm very tired."

"_You should sleep_."

"No, no, I meant, just tired, of- of-" he took a deep shuddering breath, "everything."

Everything was a broad way of describing things. It was vague. Unhelpful. Yet, somehow, it was the perfect description. _I'm tired of everything._

"_What do you mean?_"

And now, without Omera with him, physically with him, that exhaustion and those thoughts came back to him as though they'd never left at all.

Winta's laughter and excitable quips about everyday modern life. The way Butterscotch curled up in his lap, purring to drown out the drone of the washing machine, or the muttering a few rooms over, or his own thoughts playing loud in his head. Even Edgar, with how he pressed against his leg on the couch when Pedro wasn't home. Then Peri, quiet and nervous but a comfort to have around.

And Pedro? Radiating all the warmth and kindness of _home_?

Now it was all gone. Temporarily, yes, and only for a little while. But now, without it all... he'd been relying on them so much that he'd forgotten how to distract himself.

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

* * *

He fell asleep, sometime after his call with Omera ended. He'd climbed under the covers, not meaning to linger, but at some point, he closed his eyes.

Din didn't know how long he slept for. It couldn't have been long; shivering in a cold sweat, heart racing, thud, thud, thud inside his chest. His ears. And yet, he still couldn't recall, even from the deep recess of his memory, what in gods' name he'd been dreaming about.

Which was okay, he decided, after much debate; because he didn't want to know. He didn't want to know what horrors played in his mind each night - though less frequently now - that would wake him so suddenly with downright terror pumping through his veins. Death, he imagined, yes, and quite significant amounts of destruction. The kid, maybe, or Cara and Greef. Or perhaps the massacre of his covert.

It didn't matter what the dreams were, though. Or even if it did matter, he didn't care. He just wanted them to stop. So he could get decent rest, for once, _for once._ Sleeping beside Omera helped, but it didn't always work, and by god, if he could go to bed for one night without worrying about waking up not an hour later than that would have been marvellous. Perhaps, then, if he did know what the dreams were about, then he could discuss and work through them, just as Robert said, but somehow he felt that twisting them to fit his narrative of lies necessary to keep his therapist oblivious from what was really going on would only deepen his anxieties.

So would racing thoughts. He knew this.

Instead of dwelling on them, he slowly rose from the bed, using his good arm to push himself up. He realised now there was a small old-fashioned alarm clock, seated just beside him on the bedside table, one which he was sure hadn't been there before. Tick, tick, tick, it ticked with the passing of the hour. 10am, it read. He knew he had to get up, talk, but really, he wasn't much of a people person, and the mere thought of so much as humming along to whatever someone said sent waves of exhaustion over him.

Despite this, yes. He knew he needed to.

Stepping out into the hallway, he could already hear the distant, low talking coming from the living room. He could see Christopher standing just to the left of the doorway, leaning heavily on the wall with his arms crossed, saying something in what sounded like French. As Din grew closer he saw Elliot seated on the couch to the right, still clutching that teddy bear. Briefly, he wondered why sh- _he!_ \- had it. comfort, perhaps?

He replied back in the same language, which Din was now certain was French, but after, instead of Chris responding there was a new voice. Strangely familiar, but... couldn't quite place a finger on it. Male, a certain tone, deep, soft, warm, but who? Perhaps he was merely imagining things.

Chris turned to look at him as he approached, eyebrows raised very high with a very odd expression on his face, something that resembled fear, but that certainly wasn't it. Uncertainty, maybe? Elliot stared over at him, his mouth falling open and staying that way.

A man stood by the window, his back turned to the room and staring out into the garden, but still talking, unaware of Din's presence. His hands were held behind his back.

He asked a question - Din could tell by the rise in tone - but received no answer. He asked it again, but still neither Chris nor Elliot gave any response, for they were far too busy staring right at Din as though he had two heads.

"Did something happen?" Din asked. As soon as he spoke he man up ahead froze. Like something had seized his entire body, he became still as a statue.

"Ah, no," Chris finally spoke, "Just... oh dear."

"... 'oh dear'?"

It was Elliot who spoke next, standing abruptly from his seat on the couch. "Christopher, would you help me in the garden? Thank you."

They left. They left, forgetting Din alone in such a thick, tense atmosphere that not even the sharpest blade could cut through it. And still, the man by the window didn't say a word, though his hands had since fallen to his side.

"Look, I don't know what's going on," Din said, "So an explanation would be good."

"...yes."

It was quiet, so very quiet, Din almost didn't catch it.

"You're Elliot's husband, right?" he tried. "Sh- uh, he said that you can tell me shit."

"Yes." Louder, this time, though no less meek.

"...So."

"I confess..." The man ducked his head. He sucked in an audible breath, then exhaled slowly. "I had been dreading this day."

Din's stomach dropped. Suddenly his hands were sweaty, his face hot. He didn't know what expression was plastered on his face and he didn't care if he looked stupid. Only one thing played in his mind, over and over and over, _I recognise that voice. Oh gods, I recognise that voice._ It should've been obvious; the hair, the stature, simply the way he held himself, with poise and purpose, that voice. He didn't turn around but Din didn't need him to.

"Why are you here?" The sound of his own voice made him wince. Fearful, confused. It cracked.

"The same reason as you." Robert turned to face him. His expression was grim. "It's been... a very long while."

He limped forward - did he always have that limp? - until they were merely inches away from one another. Up close, Din could see scars, faint and healed but once would have been deep, dangerous slashes.

"This- this doesn't make any sense."

"Does it not?"

Robert stepped away then fell onto the couch with a grunt. He rested his head on his closed fist with his elbow propped up on the armrest.

"It makes more sense than you perhaps realise. I only wish I had told you..." They locked eyes, but Din tore them away before it meant anything. Robert continued, "People like us are naturally drawn to each other. It is why we find others such as ourselves at all. It is why, that night, I felt inclined to visit the vet." He smiled, soft and quiet and genuine, but still sad. "And you were there. I recognised you, yes. Or perhaps, more accurately, I recognise Pedro Pascal. From there, I drew conclusions. I do regret forcing you to lie, though now I doubt that regret means very much. For what it's worth, I am sorry."

"You're apologising?"

"Are you not upset?"

"No, I'm-" _relieved? Is that the word?_ It felt right, maybe it was. No more lies, no more dirty deceit... "I don't know. I don't know, I'm confused."

"A natural response. I suspect you have questions."

It felt wrong. Ridiculously wrong. Like seeing him anywhere other than in a computer screen tripped a wire in his brain and now he was questioning everything that had led up to this point.

"You're like me?" was the question Din managed to croak out. Throat hurt, tight, heart racing.

Robert hummed. "By that you mean I'm from a different dimension. Yes, I suppose I am, though I cannot say I was brought here against my will."

"I- what?"

Suddenly Robert stood. He made for the kitchen, beckoned for Din to follow, so he did. He followed him through the house up to the stairway, where they then climbed into a hall that led to the master bedroom. Din watched as Robert reached into a drawer and pulled out a long, thin, polished stick made of what looked like birch.

"The portal appeared in my office," he said. He held the stick delicately in his hand. "I had just lost someone who was very dear to me." He paused, perhaps waiting for an interjection, but Din was too dumbstruck to say anything. So he continued. "I found myself thinking that, seeing there was naught left for me in my world... I should move on to the next. So I packed my bags." He sighed and shook his head. "It was the rash decision of an old grieving man. But one I do not regret. Here, Din, what does this look like to you?"

He came over, the hand with the stick outstretched in front of him. He held it carefully in front of Din's face.

"A stick?"

Robert chuckled, but Din didn't know what was so funny.

"I suppose it ought to be! Now, at least, but... no. Hold out your hand."

He did so, and the not-stick was placed in his hand. Heavy, surprisingly so. Perhaps it was weighted, but that didn't make much sense. It was shiny with polish, and had an intricate flowery design carved into the simple, rounded hilt

"What is it?" _If not a preposterously fancy stick._

"Oh." Robert sighed wistfully. "If only I could demonstrate. This world doesn't have magic."

Din blinked. Then blinked again. His hand absentmindedly clutched tight around the stick in his palm. It was a long while before he made any sound, and when he did, it was to croak something that was supposed to be a word but only came out as an inhuman squeak.

The stick was taken from his grasp, but Din hardly noticed. He did notice, however, when Robert waved it in front of his face in an intricate, embellished, and elegant movement.

"I used to be able to do so much, you understand. I took it all for granted, I despised my heritage. Because of it, I participated in a war that was not mine to fight. Three decades later, that hate drove me to step through that portal and into this realm. I met Eleis some years after. Courted him, of course."

He stepped away, and Din released an unsteady exhale. He watched as the stick - wand, would it be, then? - was shoved back in the drawer. None too delicately.

"Come to think of it, I most certainly shouldn't have. But that is hindsight speaking to me. How could I have known? People like him... you can't see the red flags with rose-tinted glasses. Look at me when I say this, Din."

Their eyes locked. Years of pain and heartache flooded over him. The universe hated it. He could feel its hate, but he couldn't look away. What was that, fear?

"Eleis is a cold, cruel man. I was a naive fool for not having seen through his facade of lies and deceit. He is a murderer. If or when you meet him, you will not know it. He will try to manipulate you. Do not let him, do you understand?"

It was the commanding voice, loud and clear in his ears despite being on the opposite side of the room, that had Din nodding meekly and gulping harshly.

"Good." And then, it melted away. The intimidating Garrison was replaced with the kind, soft Robert he'd come to care for and respect. "Ah, we missed our session yesterday, did we not? Perhaps you would like to have it now, if you're comfortable. I have time."

"I-" Din was going to protest, but found he hadn't the energy. Nor the courage, for that matter. "Sure, yeah," he rasped.

Robert smiled. It was forced. "Follow me to my office, then. It's just downstairs."

* * *

Din recognised the interior of the office from their calls. The door in the background, a table with a potted plant. The pink and blue cloud picture framed on the wall, which was cream-coloured. All in all, it was a very small room. Much smaller than he'd expected. To the left, a small couch that fit sandwiched perfectly between the two walls. Immediately beside it was a desk, with a simple wooden chair and bits of paper skewn across it. Robert hastily piled them all up before Din had a chance to even identify what they were for. Notes on clients, probably. Maybe somewhere within the giant pile there were notes on him.

Somehow, the notion unnerved him. But he did wonder what they said. What Robert's professional view was. Maybe he could ask to see...? Legally he could, right? No confidentiality issues would arise, he wouldn't think.

"Here, sit." Robert gestured to the couch. "Make yourself comfortable. Tea?"

"Um. No, thank you." Din slowly lowered himself onto the plush couch. Comfortable, soft. He allowed himself to lean back into it.

"Alright, then." Robert flumped himself onto his chair. "Before we get started, I'd like to talk a bit about our previous session, if that's quite alright?" At Din's nonchalant shrug, he continued, "I recall that you had confessed to your lady friend your feelings for her. Correct?"

"...yes." _Lady friend._ What a posh way of putting it.

"But you felt that you didn't deserve her?"

Din remembered, now. Fifteen minutes into the session he resigned himself to simply sitting in silence. Robert had allowed him to, and for that he'd been grateful. Too much on his mind, so little he wanted to divulge. But that was when he thought he had to lie. Now...

He nodded.

"Am I correct in my assumption that perhaps you would now be more willing to talk about it?"

He hesitated, a million things rushing through his head at once, his own head screaming protests at him. Then, he nodded, and began to talk.

"Back where... where I'm from."

"Your dimension."

"...yes. My dimension." He bit his lip and gnawed on it for a moment. It hurt, but he didn't care. "I hurt people."

"You don't need to elaborate, if this subject makes you uncomfortable."

So kind, so generous, so understanding, but, _no. I need to talk about this._

"I was a bounty hunter. I got paid for bringing people in." He moved his gaze even lower than it was before, now instead of staring at Robert's chin he stared at his shoulders. "I got paid to kill people."

"Before you continue, I should let you know that I have watched the television show. I don't live under a rock."

Din supposed... it was a good thing, that Robert knew. He didn't need to say, didn't need to explain, relive the screams and beggings for mercy, _have mercy..._

But he'd relive it all either way. Over and over, whether he was aware of it or not, all those people. If he didn't kill them, he'd cuff them, and if they tried to escape, he'd throw them in carbonite. And then they were brought to their deaths anyway. All for coin, all for credits. Yes, it was for his tribe, his clan, they were his family, but those people had families too. Families, lovers...

"It doesn't do to dwell on past mistakes, Din." As always, Robert's soft voice would pull him from his mind.

"I killed people."

"Soldiers kill people, in war. They're still good men."

"Says who?"

Robert's expression didn't change or waver but it was clear in the way he shifted in his chair that the remark had pained him.

"My point, Din, is that you did what you had to. For survival. More than that, for your covert. That is admirable."

"Killing people isn't admirable. I willingly gave the kid to those Imps. They were going to kill him. He was innocent, how many more of those targets were, too? How many were falsely accused? And then outside of guild-work." He swallowed a knot in his throat. "Killing those stormtroopers. How..." he lowered his voice to a whisper, perhaps to hide how much he was struggling to speak. "How many of them didn't have a choice?"

For once, Robert hadn't any response. He stared with an unreadable expression as he tapped a pen nervously on the rim of his desk. After a very long and tense silence, he spoke,

"I understand, Din. I do. But if-"

"You don't understand."

"I was a solider." The Robert from before was back again, replacing the kindly old man. "I understand more than most. But we're not here to talk about me, you must forgive my manners..."

"I want to talk about you."

"Ah."

Robert continued to nervously tap his pen while Din fidgeted with his sleeve. A string came loose and he pulled on it, before he remembered that it wasn't his shirt, and he left it alone.

More voices were heard beyond the door. It sounded like Sam was up, talking to Chris. Loud. He tried to drown them out, ignore them, but Sam wasn't a quiet talker and it sounded as though Christopher was getting aggravated.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Din, though I appreciate your curiosity. These sessions are for you, after all."

"And if talking about you helps me?"

"It won't."

Sam yelled something in French. Robert waved his hand dismissively at the door, as if to say, _ignore it._

"You can't know that," Din said.

"This is not up for debate. How about we talk about your lady friend, yes? Ah, forgive me, what was her name?"

It was painfully obvious what he was trying to do. It was also painfully obvious there was no escaping it. _Fine._

"Omera," Din grumbled.

"Yes! Of course, of course!" He grinned from ear to ear, genuine, at the realisation of who she was. "How is that going? Would you say it's official, a relationship?"

Din glared at his feet. "I dunno." She'd respected his wishes. Kept her distance, didn't touch him if he didn't want to be touched. It hadn't been very long, true, less than a month. But moments with her lasted forever. In the best way possible.

More yelling from the next room over, harsh and loud, but again Robert gestured for him to ignore it.

Difficult. Half of him wanted to step in, the other half wanted to hide under the desk until it was over. Either way his leg jiggled up and down nervously and he kept his eyes trained on the door.

"Have you spent time together out of the house? I understand that... in this circumstance, it can be difficult."

"Little bit."

He didn't elaborate and didn't care to. A headache was coming on and he just wanted to sleep. Even better if he could bury his face in Omera's soft, sweet-scented hair.

"That's good. That's good."

Din hugged his own arms close to his body, and resigned himself not to respond. Out the corner of his eye he saw Robert shift in his chair. It creaked and so did the floorboards beneath him. But they hadn't even the luxury of an awkward silence, with the argument in the lounge getting louder. He didn't need to understand the language to feel the hostility behind the words they threw at each other like knives in a bar fight.

Robert sighed. He finally turned to face the door. "He wasn't joking.”

"What?"

"They don’t get along. I thought perhaps he'd been exaggerating. Excuse me."

But he didn't have any time to interfere, there was a loud _slap!_ a great cry then a tremendous thud as though someone had hit the ground, hard and fast. Din wasted no time pushing past Robert and slamming the door wide open. Chris stood at entrance door with his hands clenched into tight fists, his face a dangerous crimson. He glared at Samantha, who was sprawled on the floor like a haphazardly thrown doll, Ivana by her side. Din rushed to her and brushed her hair out of her face.

"Are you alright?" he whispered. Her hand found his forearm and clutched it tight. Then, she shook her head. _No._

Ivana stood abruptly. She wore only an extremely oversized shirt, but this didn't make her any less intimidating, as she stormed up to Christopher and backhand struck him with the same hand that bore her wedding ring. He would have fallen too had he not caught himself on the doorknob.

She hissed something in Bulgarian. If he heard, or cared, he gave no indication. He turned the doorknob and swung the door open, before anyone could stop him he was already out of the yard and onto the street. Limping, shaking, crying, but fast.

Din handed Sam off to Robert, who whispered offers of hot chocolate by the fireplace to calm the nerves. He slipped on his boots which were by the door, then pushed past Elliot and Ivana, out of the house and into the warm, muggy air.

Chris hadn't gotten far, but he was tall and fast, even with the heavy limp. He'd forgotten the walking stick at the house and by the looks of it, his shoes, too.

_Fucker. Bastard._

They rounded corner after corner, growing closer to the city, the crowds slowly became dense, he didn't know how long he gave chase, but he did know that Chris would get fatigued eventually. _Little shit can't run forever._

"Leave me alone!" Christopher cried, but Din persevered. Beginning to falter. Getting slow. _You hurt her, you bitch._

They were in the city, now, Din was getting closer, could hear Christopher's laboured breathing. Harsh. Struggling. _Give up._

So close, just a bit further, but Din's chest was starting to burn. He coughed, but the pain only grew worse with each thud of his feet hitting the concrete. Another corner, more people, so many cars, _they're watching,_ he came to an abrupt halt. Din fell to his hands and knees, coughing, hacking out his lungs, _so that's what happened to the smoke,_ he thought bitterly. People were watching, staring, judging, but he didn't care. His chest burned, his throat screamed in pain, and no amount of forced breathing could quell the excruciating coughs that forced their way through his lungs.

"Djarin? Din?"

Christopher. The bastard had come back, like it would change anything, like it made up for what he'd done. Din saw his feet, bare feet, he'd been running without shoes and now they were mangled with blood and gravel. But if he noticed or cared he didn't pay mind to it. He bent down by Din's side and didn't leave until well after the coughing had ceased. Even then, he kneeled beside him, not daring to touch.

"It's the smoke, isn't it? It's the smoke? Shit. Shit!"

He felt himself being hoisted up, and didn't have the will to push Chris away.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

Apologising, over and over. Not just for the smoke.

They walked back together, slowly. Christopher leaned on him, heavily, though it was clear he didn't want to; he'd push himself upward only to fall back again, then release a shaky, resigned sigh.

They hadn't run for long at all. The house came into view in less than a few minutes, and Elliot was already standing in the garden with a foul expression on his face.

They stepped through the gate. Elliot didn't speak, not a word, even as he held the door open for them.

The house was quiet, dead quiet, unsettlingly so. Chris stumbled to the walking stick, but beyond that, didn't move an inch. Frozen. Samantha watched on from the kitchen doorway, holding a mug and wearing a blanket around her shoulders.

Ivana stood beside her.

Her voice trembled as she spoke.

"I never, I never would have imagined it."

Din took a tentative step toward the corridor that led to his room, but Ivana snapped her fingers at him.

"No! You're staying!"

...so he stopped, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Christopher.” Ivana stood tall. Sam was tiny beside her. “I have stood up for you many times. I have stood beside you many times.” She took a deep shuddering breath. “You shot Pedro, and I stood up for you. I believed you when you said it was an accident, and I still do, but- but this is not- you’re stronger than her! You’re taller and stronger and you slapped her for, for what? Tell me! Tell me! No, don’t speak. Shut up. Go to bed.”

“I-“

_“Go to bed!”_

He stared. Stunned into silence, so still that he could be mistaken for a statue. Then, he nodded. Subtle, quiet, but somehow spoke volumes.

He left. Limped with his cane across the room and into the hall. Turned into a room right beside Din’s. The door closed softly behind him.

“...Sam,” Din rasped. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. “I don’t know,” she sniffled. “Hurts.”

“He hit you hard...” He sat on the couch, and motioned for her to join him. “Let me see.”

After she sat down he brushed her hair behind her ear. A violent red mark shaped the right side of her face. With such pale skin, being albino... it was jarring to look at.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wish I could help the pain.”

But she shook her head. “It’s my fault. I was awful.”

“Don’t say that,” Ivana grumbled. “It is not your fault. His actions are his own.”

“I was nasty. I’m always nasty. You didn’t hear what I said.”

Ivana sighed, but said no more.

“I knew what I was doing,” Sam continued. “I did. I knew he was angry and upset, I was hurting him. I was hurting him. I always hurt him I can see it in his face but usually he, he swallows it down. It is my fault.”

“Sam...”

“I know he’s depressed, and angry, and sick, but I egged him on anyway. You don’t understand. Our families have known each other since we were in kindergarten. We’ve been fighting since we knew how to walk and talk. I’m just a... a stupid silver-spoon, spoiled little brat who doesn’t know when to shut up.”

Ivana sat on the opposite side of her. She rested her hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Please don’t say that about yourself. Look, I... I didn’t know it was so serious.”

“It’s been serious for years. He hates me. I deserve to be hated, after, after everything I’ve said. To him, about him, behind his back. I’m a bully!”

“You’re young,” Din said. “I don’t know anything about this sort of shit, but you can see there’s a problem, so... you can work on it. Fix it. But he still shouldn’t have hit you.” Then he turned to Ivana with a frown. “You shouldn’t have hit him either.”

She flushed. “I was just so angry!”

“That’s what he would’ve said. I’m a hypocrite for saying this, but anger isn’t an excuse.”

“Oh.”

Din gently patted Sam’s arm, then stood from the couch. “I need to lie down. You three should... talk. I guess. I dunno. I’m not good at this shit.”

_That went well._

It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s not exactly a happy chapter, but I wanted to post it early after the clusterfuck that was that finale. It upset me a lot. I’m posting this to cope. It’s not perfect, and I had to use my phone to post it so the formatting might be weird. If it is, I’ll fix it when i have access to my computer again. Regardless, I hope you guys liked it.
> 
> Leave a comment, maybe? Comments are sexy


	47. ...shit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing lasts forever  
Some things aren't meant to be  
But you'll never find the answers  
Until you set your old heart free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter sucks.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it anyway!

_Eleis,_

_Abbi is antsy and paranoid. I don't blame her. Please return soon. She lost her brother. She is grieving. May lose the baby. Not eating or sleeping. Having Ben watch her. Gabe is also paranoid. Things not looking good. Botched a mission. You said you have a plan. Where the fuck is it._

_Heidi_

* * *

Din didn't look up from his book when Christopher sat down at the foot of his bed.

"Are you- are you okay?"

"I can breathe," he grumbled, "if that's what you mean."

"Right. Right... is- is that Harry Potter? That you're reading?"

"Yes."

It was on the shelf in the lounge. After the last revelation, he found it only fitting... beyond that, he'd left his own copy at home, and needed a distraction.

"You... know, then? Robert told you, I mean."

"Yes. Are you going to keep talking?"

Christopher turned so that he was facing the door, away from Din.

"Sorry. I, I just wanted to thank you."

Din finally looked up, one eyebrow raised. "For?"

"For running after me. Earlier. I dunno what I woulda done but, but I wasn't in a right mind."

"Mhm."

"...right. Okay. You don't wanna be bothered. Okay. I'll... go."

Just as Chris stood to open the door, Din slammed the book shut. He jumped and whipped around with a yelp. _Oh. He finally shaved._

"Sorry," Din grumbled. "Frustrated."

"There's a lot of that going around."

"How're your feet? They got fucked up."

"Oh." Chris lifted one foot up and slid off the sock. Beneath it were bandages, tightly wrapped around all but his toes. "They're fine. I guess. Robert said I'm lucky I didn't step on any glass."

"He put the bandages?"

"He's the one who set your arm, too. He was a-"

"Soldier, yes. I remember." _A solider. _He couldn't imagine it. Robert, sweet kind man, fighting in a war. Beyond that, one that "wasn't his to fight". That was what he'd said. So _why? _"Which war did he fight in?"

"That... question is more loaded than you think."

Din placed the book on the bedside table. He leaned back into the pillows. "Enlighten me."

"It was..." Christopher sighed and fell back onto the bed. He stared at the wall with a strange, far off look. "I dunno if it's my place. Okay. So, he was a wizard. You know that now."

"But there's no magic here, so he can't do spells."

"Yes. Well, sort of. But yes. So... this is just what he told me. So, he didn't like it. Being a wizard. He's half-blood, his mother was a witch, but he was raised by his father who was super weird about the whole thing. So he grew up with the same mindset, right? So, when the American Revolutionary War-"

"I'm sorry, what?"

_The Revolution? 1765? The War of Independence? That American Revolutionary War?_

Chris bit his lip. "I should've led with that."

"Uh, _probably_?"

"He's..." he sighed again. "He's from the eighteenth century. Sort of. The wizarding world's version of it, anyway. He looks... 'bout sixty, right?"

Din had been wondering about that. Elliot was at least 80. That left a huge age gap between him and Robert. 20 years, at the most. Not that there was anything wrong with that, consenting adults and all.

"Well, wizards live longer. Than normal people, like us. So Robert's-"

Christopher's phone rang. He cut himself off abruptly and frantically fished it out from his pocket.

"Sorry," he mumbled, and stepped back out into the doorway. Din followed. He leaned against the wall and listened.

"Doctor? Is everything- Christ, calm down. Slow down. What is it?"

_Peri? _Din pushed himself off the wall. He stood next to Chris, but the man gave him a glare and shuffled away.

"Calm down, speak slower, you know what I'm like with- yes, okay, I understand that, but-"

He stopped. Listened. Din couldn't hear a word that was being said, but it sounded frantic.

"Shit," Chris breathed. "Oh shit. Okay. So he-? Oh my god. Okay. We'll be right there, just... I don't know, Peri! Give him a blanket or something! Tea, maybe? He likes tea, right? Just hold on, please. We'll be right there, I promise."

He hung up. Snapped his phone closed. For a moment he simply stood, facing away from Din, then turned around with a heavy sigh.

"So. Change of plans. We're going back to your place."

Dread settled in Din's stomach. Something had happened - _Pedro?!_ "Why? What's going on?"

"You remember Asher? He was just, uh... he... he got thrown into another dimension. But he's back now."

Din's eyes widened. He didn't say anything.

"But he's back." Silence, then, "He came back."

_The implications._

Neither of them spoke for a very long while, and neither of them wanted to. Standing in the hallway, like two awkward teenagers.

"I'll get my stuff," Din rasped. Chris nodded but didn't move.

The next hour or so was a blur. Robert agreed to drive all four of them back to Pedro's house, after an initial hesitation to leave Elliot alone. But it didn't take much convincing after they explained _why _they needed to go back.

It was cramped, in the car. Ivana sat in the front seat, both Chris and Robert had insisted for some reason. The rest of them sat in the back, with Sam, being small, sandwiched between Din and Christopher. She hummed quietly along to the music playing through the radio and bobbed her head back and forth as a half-hearted dance.

Excluding the music, though, the ride itself was quiet. No one talked, and Din was growing more uncomfortable by the minute combined with the close proximity to people and the heavy backpack shoved between his legs. That and his broken arm, which, on more than one occasion, he accidentally hit on the armrest as the car turned a corner.

Finally he began to recognise the streets they were driving on. Some strange euphoria filled his chest the second they turned onto his, and he could see _home_ in the distance.

The speed at which he got out of the car upon parking surprised even him. Pedro was already standing on the porch, and at the sight of Din he leapt down the stairs and sprinted to engulf him in a tight hug. For once, Din didn't mind.

Even if it made his arm scream in pain. His joy at seeing Pedro outdid that.

"You're okay," Pedro spoke into his shoulder. "You're alive. Thank god."

"The others are here, too."

"Ugh. I don't care." He pulled away from the hug anyway, though reluctantly. "Shit, your arm!"

"It's fine. I'll live."

The others came up behind him, slow and cautious. When Din turned around though he saw Robert still standing by the car, with a look of concern.

"Something wrong?" Din called to him. Robert smiled, shrugged, shook his head, and began to slowly limp over.

"Why's he here?" Pedro muttered.

"He's from a different dimension, too..."

"Jesus Christ. Of course he fucking is. Of course. Why can't anyone just be normal?"

As soon as Robert was close enough, he held out his hand. Pedro shook it firmly with a slight, but forced, smile.

"I trust Din filled you in?" Robert hummed. Pedro nodded.

"Just now, yes. Are you okay? Your limp-"

"Quite alright, not to worry."

"Come in. I'll make coffee."

"Oh, thank you, dear."

Everyone else went inside, except for Christopher, who was glaring at the steps leading to the porch with such vigour that you would have thought that it had personally offended him. Din waited at the door, but Chris didn't move except to shift his position leaning on the cane.

Finally, he sighed.

"I don't have enough spoons for this. Could you-" he looked up at Din, swallowed harshly, "could you help me?" A brief pause. "Please?"

Din furrowed his eyebrows. "...spoons?"

"I don't wanna explain. Please, I can't get up the steps."

_Interesting. _He obliged, though with hesitation. Din took Christopher's elbow and helped him up the stairs, it wasn't many but with each step his breath rattled, and almost fell over when they reached the top.

Din wanted to believe it was just the fever, one that still hadn't passed, this much was clear by the sheen of sweat coating his forehead, but...

_He's sick._

He didn't let go of Christopher's elbow, even after clearing the steps, until they'd gotten into the house and he collapsed onto the couch.

"Din!"

_Omera._

She stood in the kitchen with her arms outstretched. He wasted no time running to her and allowing himself to be engulfed in yet another embrace, though gentler and softer than Pedro's tight grip.

"I was so worried," she whispered into his ear. "I was so worried."

"I'm okay. I'm alive."

She pulled back with tears in her eyes. "I was so scared I'd lose you. I can't lose you."

"I promise, I promise, I won't go anywhere..."

She grabbed his right hand and clutched it tight. He didn't have the heart to tell her to let go, nor did she.

"Your arm?" she questioned. She stared at it curiously.

"I broke it. It'll heal."

"You said you only got a few scratches."

"I didn't want to worry you."

Christopher called out to them from the couch. "I'm sure this reunion is important, but, if we could focus...?"

Din turned around. His eyes immediately found Peri on the couch, and next to him, with a blanket draped over his shoulders and a cup of tea in his hands, was a tall, dark-skinned man that he could only assume to be Asher. Not what he'd expected, if he was being honest. But they made a cute couple.

Robert stood off to the side, staring, with wide eyes. No one acknowledged him. Din found this strange, but didn't want to question it.

Din and Omera sat behind Winta, who was kneeled at the coffee table not paying any attention at all to the conversations around her, instead deigning herself to draw pictures with graphite pencils on pieces of scrap paper. As soon as he sat down, Butterscotch plonked onto his lap from out of nowhere and began to purr very loudly.

_I missed you too._

Maybe the tears in his eyes were from sadness, or maybe relief. Maybe both, he couldn't tell. No one had noticed, no one, except for Robert. But he didn't speak, still quiet, he kept to himself by the front door with his hands held behind his back.

"Asher," Pedro began, "I know it's hard, but- but we need to hear what happened."

"O-Okay," Asher stammered. "Okay." He took a deep, deep breath, and clutched Peri's hand tight. "I- I dunno how long I was there. A few days, maybe a week, I dunno. I just remember, this real bright portal, orange, I fell through and I..." but then he stopped, and shook his head. Peri leaned over and whispered something in his ear. After that, he nodded, and said, "I was in space."

"In a ship?" asked Din.

"No." Asher shook his head vigorously. "No. I mean, I was _in space."_

The silence that followed was deafening. The pure dread that settled in Din's stomach was unsettling. Nausea and bile forced its way up through his throat.

_How many people suffered that fate?_

"It- it was only for a few seconds. Maybe less, I dunno, but- it felt like forever. I had to force myself to breathe out the entire time- exhale, I mean. Like, I just knew, I think I learned it online, you have to breathe out or, or your lungs..."

"They expand," Din grumbled. "Yeah."

"So I did that. It was so cold. So cold. But there were stars, I never seen so many. And I was floating in nothing, you know? It was... if I wasn't gonna die, I mean- it woulda been peaceful, right? Beautiful. But then there was another portal, and I was somewhere else. I hurt... everything hurt, so bad. My ears were ringing, I couldn't hear a thing, I think they were bleeding? I don't- it's fuzzy."

"Decompression sickness," Sam chided. Everyone turned to stare at her. "...right? I'm not just making that up?"

"No, no, you... you got it," Chris muttered.

Asher continued. "I think I fell unconscious. Because, then, time had passed? I guess? And I was on a weird uncomfy bed. And there were two guys arguing. And then... Peri."

"What?" Peri, who had been resting his head on Asher's shoulder, suddenly shot up.

"You were there. But it wasn't you, it wasn't..."

He devolved into a bumbling mess of tears and stammers. Sounds that should have been words but turned into pure, panicked gibberish. All the while, though Peri tried his best to comfort him, calm him, he too grew pale as the colour drained from his face.

Asher buried his face into the palms of his hands. Winta was listening, now, she'd abandoned her drawings, and Din could see that Omera was itching to shoo her upstairs. But she didn't, and kept her tight grip on Din's hand.

"What do you mean I was there? Asher? What do you-"

"It was _you. _He had your name and your face and even your glasses but he _wasn't._"

Peri stood from the couch, dropping Asher's hand. He began to pace, back and forth across the entire room, his head held low and hands clutched together under his chin. Trembling.

"Where were you?" he demanded, in a harsh voice that should not have come from him. But then he stopped pacing, turned to face Asher, and tried again, softly. "Where were you? Do you know?"

Asher swallowed harshly. "I dunno. Some weird base, I dunno. There were these people in weird white armour, but you- _he _hid me from them."

He stared up at Peri, but Peri didn't stare back. His head was buried in the palms of his hands.

"I want it to be a dream," Asher rasped. "Please tell me it was a dream."

"Perhaps explanations are in order?"

It was Robert who spoke. Din hadn't forgotten his presence, but it seemed everyone else had, with the way they reacted to his voice. Peri, most of all; he whipped around and stared with wide eyes as though he'd seen a ghost.

Asher shivered, even under the thick blanket. "I don't know what's goin' on. I'm just so confused, please..."

It was Ivana who spoke up, then, fidgeting with the neck of her turtleneck jumper.

"Maybe the rest of us can go. Maybe you can explain it to him, doctor?"

_This is personal, isn't it?_

Like he'd been in a trance, Peri shook his head and finally turned to face the rest of them, though he kept his gaze low and his shoulders hunched.

"Ma-maybe," he stammered.

So they left, albeit slowly, as Pedro was reluctant to let Peri bear the burden alone. But eventually they had all filtered into the yard, not before Pedro grabbed his pack of UNO cards. Din played, of course, but he didn't pay much attention.

He did start to get peeved when Christopher won, though.

Two games in a row. _That cheeky grin. Bastard._

Maybe he'd indulge in it for a little while.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"Peri, what's going on?"

"I didn't want you to be involved."

"Peri?"

"Oh gods, I'm so sorry."

"Please talk to me."

He fell back onto the couch and buried his hands in his hair. He vaguely registered Asher's hand running up and down his back, a comfort.

"What was he like?" Peri muttered. "Tell me."

"Who?"

_Doctor Pershing. _"My doppelganger."

"Oh."

He seemed to think for a moment. Took another sip of the tea in his hands.

"Well... he was very different. A bit of a smart-arse, actually."

Peri chuckled. "Yeah."

"He didn't know me. He asked how I knew his name, and I was... so confused. And scared. And then, I think, we got attacked?"

"Attacked?"

"Yes, there was yelling, and I heard... something. I don't know. And then this guy came in wearing armour, with a gun? But it was weird. And then you- _he-" _he sighed. "There was something on the table, he said it was a child but it didn't look like one. Then the guy was all like," he imitated Din's voice, "_what did you do to it? _And you said that you protected it, that it'd be dead without you. And I thought-" he swallowed harshly. "I thought he was gonna kill you, that guy. But he just left. He didn't see me, I don't think, I was behind a table."

By now, Peri was staring at him. He held his hands up to his mouth and bit down hard on his knuckles. It was sure to leave a mark, but he didn't care.

Asher continued after another long sip of tea. He'd stopped shaking, now, but there was still a tremor in his voice. Subtle, but spoke volumes.

"So then, after that, you had to leave. You hid me the whole way, I think they woulda killed me. You stowed me away in the back of this, this really big car, thing. Like a tank? But not really. And then we arrived somewhere else, at a different base, and you hid me in a room. I couldn't leave, not for the whole time. But you brought me food, and, and drink. You even let me use your bed, you said you didn't need it, that you spent most of your time in your lab."

He flushed, then added quickly,

"_His _lab. His. Sorry, I- I've been saying 'you' this whole time, haven't I?"

_That man is not me. Not anymore._

"Peri?"

He dropped his hands to his lap. "Asher."

"Please tell me it was a dream."

Wide, wild eyes. Desperate. But Peri couldn't find it within himself to lie.

"I can't."

Asher nodded, sucked in a breath, and ducked his head.

"I'm from a different dimension," Peri spoke, breaking the uncomfortable silence that befell them. "So's most of the people here, I think."

"You expectin' me to believe that?" came the quiet, meek response.

"You just went through it. You tell me."

"...shit."

Peri extended his hand. Asher stared at it, uncertain and wary, then took it with a small, resigned sigh.

"Are you okay?" Peri asked. He ran his thumb little circles in the palm of Asher's hand.

"I dunno. I guess I am. Shaken, maybe. Whole world-view is changing, you know? I dunno what I'm supposed to feel. But life... goes on. Right?"

"Yeah. I get it."

Maybe it was the strange calm serenity of it all, that convinced him to do it. Maybe it was simply how close they were, and how desperate he was for human contact. Maybe it was simply because they locked eyes, and that was the turning point. He didn't know why, and he didn't care, either. What mattered was that Asher's lips were as soft as they looked, and this made him happy.

It was quick, and shy, and halfway through he second-guessed every action that had ever brought him to that point, but when he pulled back Asher was smiling, and this made him happy too.

"You're very pretty," Asher hummed, the grin refusing to falter. "You know?"

"You too," Peri breathed. He wasn't smiling, not like Asher was, but he hoped that the flush on his cheeks and the slightest tremor in his voice was enough to show that he truly meant it. "U-Um, we should- let the others back in, it's a warm day, and-"

"Yeah. Yeah, okay..."

But neither of them moved. Neither of them wanted to. Why waste an opportunity for quiet? For a moment of peace in the midst of so much chaos? So much more complicated than he ever knew. Ivana and Sam had been taken, and Christopher ignored him for weeks; that had shaken him enough already, but then Asher... Peri had been in the middle of a nap, when his phone rang. On the other end was Asher's frantic voice. Out of breath, panicked. Peri wanted to help, he needed to help, what else was he supposed to do except be with him physically? So he invited him over, with Pascal's permission.

"Asher..." he began, slowly, for now another question rose to the front of his mind. One he'd almost been afraid to ask. "How did you get back?"

"Oh, well..."

Din had come back in, just a few moments ago, but he didn't interrupt, just quietly watched from the hall.

"One day, I- I woke up all delirious and woozy, and then, there was a guy. Just standin' there, you know? But he was dressed all fancy and there was 'nother portal just behind him. He said- I _think _he told me it was an accident, and that he'd come to bring me back."

_A man? All this...? Behind it all, some mortal man?_

Underwhelming. Anti-climactic.

Peri shook his head. "No. No, that can't be right. Surely...?" He glanced over at Din, hoping to find him in agreement, but was only met with a pale, wide-eyed stare.

"What did he look like?" Din rasped. All the while, he made a frantic hand movement in front of the window, waving for people to come in, to listen.

"Well, I dunno, it was... strange. He was strange. But he looked real tired. Exhausted, I think- if this is all real, then... then maybe he's going around fixing it."

"Who's fixing what?" Chris came up behind Din, accompanied by Winta. Judging by the green stains on both of them, it seemed they'd been playing in the grass together. Peri smiled at the thought, and wished he'd seen it.

"Asher said that a man brought him back," Din growled. Shaken, angry, his fists were clenched. It took Chris a moment to catch up, likely very tired and in need of rest, but when he did the colour drained from his face like paint from a cloth.

"A _man_? Who? What'd he look like?"

"I just said- it's difficult to say, you know? I don't remember, I was so delirious and tired and I just wanted to go home."

"Please," Chris pleaded, "_Please. _You need to give me something." His voice cracked. Winta grabbed his elbow, and he gave her a watery smile of reassurance, but it was forced.

"W-Well." Asher swallowed. "Black hair? Pale? I think he had a cape. I think that stood out to me. He looked sort of like some, some sort of wizard. It didn't make any sense to me."

"What's this about wizards?" Pascal joined them, now, along with the girls, who were smiling and whispering amongst themselves, gossiping and not paying attention. It was... nice. Pleasant, to see them getting along, especially Sam who, as he understood, was not the most sociable nor "politically correct" girl. Christopher's words, not his.

Asher huffed in annoyance. "Some random weirdo dude appeared with a portal and took me back to my apartment. Is there anyone else I gotta explain it to?"

The girls stopped whispering and stared. Sam had - somehow - grown paler.

After a tense silence, Pascal cleared his throat. "U-Uh, Robert's out there, still, but-"

_Robert._

_So it is him, then._

Peri pushed it to the back of his mind for later.

Christopher was about to speak, his mouth opened and all, but before he could get a word out the familiar grating tune of a ringing phone echoed from his pocket. With an exceeding dramatic sigh and an apologetic smile he turned around, marched to the other end of the room, and answered it. Peri expected their conversations to continue, but it seemed Chris was the only one who had had anything to say at all, so they waited, and all the while pretended they weren't eavesdropping.

"...are you sure? You found...? You have- okay. I'll... sorry? Nevada? I can't... that's so far."

That was all they got. He left the house to stand in the yard, instead. Din almost followed but Ivana shook her head at him with a stern look that had even him backing away.

"This... man," she spoke. "Asher, yes? That is your name? Yes. This man, what did he look like?"

Another annoyed sigh. "Had a red cape. Black hair. Ev'rything is fuzzy, okay?" He looked down at his now empty cup and muttered under his breath, "I just wanna sleep."

Peri grabbed his hand and held it gently. He hoped it would be a comfort, if anything, or a distraction. The kiss was good, incredible even, but temporary and fleeting, and now reality was beginning to catch up. Comfort was the least he could offer... he just wished he could do more.

_Being in space. _He couldn't begin to imagine, even if only for a moment... if that second portal hadn't come...

_He'd be a corpse floating in the void, and no one would ever know._

Peri tightened his grip.

"A red cape?" Pascal said, seemingly absentminded. He pulled out his phone.

"Did he say what happened?" Christopher asked, very suddenly appearing again. He trembled as he spoke, his eyes were wide, afraid, and desperate. "Did this guy tell you anything? Please."

Asher thought for a moment then shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, really, I wish I had more to tell you, but..."

"It's... fine."

But Peri could tell, and no doubt everyone else could as well, by the tremor in his voice and how he released an unsteady sigh, that it wasn't fine. Not at all. Even Ivana, who usually would be by his side, to comfort and calm him, was frozen in place, so still you could mistake her for a statue.

It was _Winta, _who spoke next, much to everyone's surprise. She'd been quiet, and Peri had forgotten she was there at all.

"Maybe that man will come here, and take everyone back."

Only a few words, just one sentence, and the entire atmosphere shifted. Din sat down on the couch with a strange, far off look. Christopher turned his back on them and buried his face in his hands, Ivana finally saw what was going on and moved to comfort him but by then it was in vain.

"You... you guys know what that description sounds like, right?" Sam said into the silence. "I'm not the only one thinking it, right?"

Everyone except for Chris, Ivana, and Pascal turned to stare at her quizzically.

She huffed, apparently annoyed at their obliviousness.

"Orange portals? Red cape? I don't even _like _those movies, it's ridiculous that I'm the only one who can see it!"

"You're not the only one," Pascal sighed, finally looking up from his phone. He leaned over and showed the screen to Asher. "Is this the guy?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "That's- that's him, that looks like him."

Peri didn't have time to look at the image before it was pulled away.

"Makes so much f-" he caught himself before swearing in front of Winta, "sense. Makes so much sense. I'm so stupid. Din?"

"...yes?" He was suddenly pulled out of whatever world he'd found himself in.

"Have I always been this stupid?"

"No...?"

"Hm, that's debatable."

Din glanced over at Asher, then Chris who had sunk to his knees, then back at Pascal. "What's going on?"

Christopher stood again on two shaky legs, trembling. He turned to face them and let his hands drop to his sides, exposing his red, puffy eyes and lines from tears he hadn't bothered to wipe away.

But it wasn't sad. It didn't feel that way, at least, not to Peri. It felt like relief, in some strange way. Perhaps the knowing of _how_ was all they ever needed to have hope again.

"It's, uh..." Chris rasped. He swallowed. "It's Doctor Strange, right?"

Pascal shrugged, then thought better of it, and nodded. "Has to be. Can't think of anyone else."

"But why would he do this?" Ivana asked, with her own shaken, emotional voice.

"He told me it was an accident," said Asher. "It wasn't meant to happen."

"But this is Doctor Strange we're talking about, right?" Sam cut in. "He doesn't make mistakes."

Asher huffed. "I dunno who this guy even is, I'm just sayin' what he told me."

"What you _think _he told you. You said it yourself, yeah? It's fuzzy."

"Right, but I remember that bit! Vividly!"

Din stood abruptly from the couch. He held up both of his hands. "Let's just... take a step back. Who the hell is Doctor Strange?"

"A guy from those big, uh, Marvel movies I told you about," Pascal sighed. "He's like a time wizard, I guess. Time and space wizard."

Peri only vaguely recalled the name; he never bothered with pop culture beyond what Chris and Ivana showed him, which, granted, mostly consisted of stuff _they _enjoyed, not the rest of the world.

Still...

To even think about all this, all the nonsense thrust upon them, all because of the mishap of some sorcerer? A _doctor?_

_Some doctor, _he scoffed to himself. _What's he a doctor of, anyway?_

"What does this mean, then...?"

_For all of us?_

_Not fair. _It played over and over in his head. _Not fair. Not fair._

"It means we can go home."

_He's going to come get us, fix his mistake._

_Christopher can go home._

Peri glared at his hands.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"Something's wrong."

The house was quiet. Normally Chris would've liked it, the silence. It wasn't a comfort.

He sat down across from Peri, at the table. Asher was in the bathroom, and the others were either outside or in their rooms, so he took the opportunity.

"Doctor?" he prodded, when he received no response. Peri glanced up at him, only briefly, then reverted his glare to the table.

"I'm fine," he grumbled.

"Clearly."

Peri frowned at him. "You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Poke and prod. I don't want to talk, stop trying to force it."

Chris leaned back. He blinked. A lump formed in his throat. "Sorry."

"And then there's that. That half-hearted bullshit. If you want me to believe you're sorry, then actually put in some damn effort."

A state of anger, bitterness, a glare that he'd been happy to see go. _Why are you mad? What did I do? How can I fix it? I'll do anything you ask._

Still, he stood his ground and ignored the tightening of his throat.

"I'm... I'm sorry."

"No!"

Peri slammed the table with his palm. Chris jolted in his seat, it took all of his willpower to not jump up and leave, let someone else deal with it, _run away like you always do._

"What's going on? I heard..." Asher reentered the room, his eyes darted side to side between the two of them at the table, "...yelling?"

"Everything's fine," Peri said, though the tone of his voice gave away the lie, Asher didn't poke, or prod, and something within the deep recess of Christopher's mind whispered _good. Be better than me._

There was silence, tense and suffocating, until Robert limped in from the back. He gave a genuine, albeit tired smile. His eyes lingered on Peri for a moment too long, but quickly tore his gaze away when Peri turned in his seat to stare right back.

"Christopher, I'm going home," Robert hummed. "I can drive you back."

"Oh. R-Right." Chris used the table to push himself to his feet. "I'll, I'll get Ivana, and Sam."

He called to them, and they joined him quickly enough. After an awkward round of goodbyes, and a painful descent down the steps, they loaded themselves into Robert's car.

"Do you remember our address?" Ivana asked, already pulling out her phone to give directions. But Robert chuckled to himself, with a small shake of his head.

"_Your_ address? No, you misunderstand. You're staying with us."

"...with... with you?"

Robert caught Christopher's eye in the rearview mirror. "There's no shame in asking for help. If we had known the severity of your situation... we'd have taken you in much sooner."

The car revved to life, and they were off.

He didn't bother to hide his tears.

* * *

_Heidi,_

_I'm dearly sorry to hear about this. I know what Abbi must be going through. I will try to return as soon as possible, but understand, I cannot simply leave. You are my Right Hand, Heidi, it is your duty to ensure the safety and well-being of C.A.N.D.I.D. whilst I am absent. This is a difficult time, I know this, but I promise you; soon._

_Anthony shall be avenged. Christopher Farnes will not go without suffering the consequences of his actions._

_Kindly, Eleis J._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back bitches
> 
> submit commissions to support me on [ fiverr!!! ](https://www.fiverr.com/share/mYmx8V)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/QxdaPYsMVn) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)


	48. Wrong number?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See, your face wasn't quite as I remember  
But I know that wicked shape to your smile  
Bury me as it pleases you, lover  
At sea, or deep within the catacomb  
But these bones never rested while living  
So how can they stand to languish in repose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D

_Eleis,_

_You're an old fool. You're our leader, it's your responsibility to lead. Why establish CANDID if you won't be here for it? Ben is injured. Caught in the crossfire. If he dies, it's your fault._

_Heidi ("Right Hand")_  
  


* * *

15th April, 2020

"Din?"

Din sighed. In annoyance, or out of exhaustion, he couldn't quite tell. He tore his eyes up from Heidi's letter and gazed over at Peri in the doorway. A few hours had passed, since they all left. 

"Yes?"

"That man... the old man, with glasses?"

"Yes?"

"Robert Garrison?"

Din squinted. "Where's this going?"

There was a brief pause. Peri moved closer to sit on the edge of the bed.

"I met him, a few times, I think. When I was still living on the streets? He... he brought me food, and he helped me after..." he trailed off.

"After?"

"After... after, uh, I was, was assaulted. He found me and made sure I was okay, so- sorry, it's just, weird to see him again. Small world, you know?"

Strange, indeed, that Robert supposedly had met Peri, too. If what he'd said before was true, that people affected by the dimensional fuckery were naturally drawn to each other, then... well, it wasn't too far-fetched but _still. _Los Angeles alone was a gigantic city. And somehow, Robert knew Chris, and Peri, and now acted as Din's therapist. Psychologist, whatever, same difference. Probably.

"He found you?" Din asked. "Just on the streets?"

"In an alleyway. It was... about an hour after."

"After you were assaulted?"

A pause. Peri fiddled with the strings of his sweatpants. "Yes." His eyes glazed over, they became misty and distant. He stared down at his hands. "He gave me food, and, and blankets. If he hadn't found me..."

The door creaked open. Butterscotch jumped up onto the bed, but Peri paid her no mind. Din picked her from the blankets and carried her in his arm like a baby.

She liked it when he did that. Would routinely ask for it by pawing at him, and complaining when he put her down. It began when Omera did it, only once, and now it was the only acceptable way to be carried, in her mind. Difficult, now, with one arm in a sling, but not impossible.

Peri shuffling off the bed took Din out of his thoughts. He watched as he leaned over the little desk and pushed out the window. A gust of hot air flew in, but Peri didn't seem to care, if he even noticed. He leaned on the desk with both hands and sucked in a deep, shaky breath.

*** * ***

"Are you alright?" Din asked. He received a small head shake as an answer.

"Nausea."

"Do you think you're gonna be sick?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I just, uh, I can't stop thinking about it. About her."

"Who?"

"That woman," he hissed. "It was dark but I remember her. I see her face. I hear her... her voice."

Din placed Butterscotch on his pillow. She didn't complain, this time. He stood and approached Peri at the desk.

"What happened?"

It was a question he'd been hesitant to ask. Hesitant to think about, even. The fact that he asked at all surprised even him. An impulse, he supposed, from piqued curiosity.

He hadn't been expecting a response.

"She wouldn't leave me alone." He spoke with a strained, yet strangely robotic tone. "I thought she was a dealer. Then she shoved me into an alleyway. It took ten minutes."

"So, it was-"

Din stopped himself before he finished the sentence.

"I'm sorry," he said instead.

"I wanted to kill her." Peri wiped away a tear with the back of his sleeve. "I wanted to kill myself. Christopher pulled me out of that."

*** * ***

"He's important to you."

"I fell in love with him." Peri straightened his back. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Stupid thing to do, he's awful."

"...but what about Asher?"

"He doesn't know. It doesn't matter."

"It would matter to me, if I was him."

Peri tilted his head thoughtfully to the side. "Maybe I should tell him."

"Would he accept that?"

"I don't know. I don't want to hurt him."

_You're hurting him whether he knows it or not. _Din frowned but said no more of it. It put an icky feeling in his chest, the mere thought of loving any two people at once. Choose one, be happy with them! But deep down he knew it wasn't that simple, as much as he inwardly preached it. Feelings were complicated, as he'd come to learn. They weren't the same for everyone else.

Their comfortable silence was interrupted by Din's phone. It vibrated on the bedside table, he hated the ringing so it was always on silent. Slowly he reached over with a sigh. The screen displayed a number he didn't recognise.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know."

Peri shifted from the corner of his eye. "Wrong number, perhaps?"

"Maybe." He pressed to end the call. "I guess I'll find out if they call back. You hungry?"

"Always, yes."

Din bit down a chuckle. "I wanted to try and make some stuff. Cook. Maybe you could help?"

Peri stared back out the window with a thoughtful hum. "I'm not exactly a good chef."

"Well, then we can both make something horrible." _And laugh about it. _He could use a good laugh.

Peri smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Sure."  
  


* * *

  
  
"Let me see those." Robert pulled Christopher's sleeve over his elbow. "You're smothered. Whatever happened, my boy?" He pressed his thumb into one of the bruises. Chris hissed at the pain. "Ah, apologies."

"Nothing... _happened, _I just, I just bruise easily."

"But so many?"

"I'm fragile."

As he said this, Robert pulled down the collar of his shirt, exposing the deep, black bruise that crept its way up from his collarbone to his neck.

"What happened here?"

"I don't know. I, I think it was after the explosion. I landed on my front."

"That looks unhealthy. Take off your shirt."

"_What?_"

Christopher's face became hot. He surely looked ridiculous, with his wide, tired eyes, wild hair, and the deep flush that crept over his cheeks and ears.

"I want to take a closer look."

No part of him was comfortable with the turn of events. But Robert knew what he was doing, and perhaps he could help, even a little, if not to stop the bruising then at least to ease the discomfort. They hurt, now, more than they ever did, with each abrupt movement and subtle press. Lying on anywhere but his back had become properly painful, and even then...

He grabbed the hem of his shirt and slowly pulled it over his head. His muscles ached with the strain of the movement, his shoulders, his spine.

"Ah, there's the stab wound, healed nicely. Let's see... I haven't seen a bruise like this in decades," Robert sighed, almost wistfully. "It stretches to your shoulder, too." He ran a single finger over the edge of it. "It must be very uncomfortable."

"A bit," Chris muttered truthfully.

"I might have a cream for the pain and swelling. If I don't I'll travel to the market and purchase some."

_The market. _It was comforting, in a strange way, to know that even Robert, after so long, still hadn't shaken all the little things from his vocabulary.

"It's fine," Chris protested. "Really, I swear. I don't want to be a-"

"Look at me."

Robert's hand cupped his jaw. They stared into each other's eyes. The Universe screamed at him for it, like it always did, but he ignored it. Like he always did.

"It's _okay."_

On any other day, at any other time, he might've nodded, played along, if only for Robert's sake.

He couldn't.

"Nothing is okay." It didn't feel any better admitting it. "Everything is out of control." But he didn't care. "I don't want to do this anymore."

He was met with a thoughtful gaze, filled with sickening pity. Robert's hand fell to his lap. He reached for his cup of coffee, but his eyes never left Chris' face, even as he took a long, drawn-out drink.

"You're sick," he said, after a tense moment of silence. "Aren't you?"

"You tell me, Dr. Garrison."

"I'm a doctor of psychology, not medicine. You know that."

Christopher glared down at his bruised arms. "Yes, then."

Robert placed his now empty mug back on the table. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the handle. Chris could see the wheels turning in his head, with how his unseeing eyes flicked back and forth, and how he gnawed on his lip.

"You told me that you had a therapist, yes? When you were younger?"

"...before all this, yes. I'd had the same one since I was fifteen, I think."

"What if I were to offer you my services?"

Chris scoffed. "I can't pay for that." He pulled his shirt back over his head.

Robert gave a sad smile. "I never said you needed to."

He didn't have time to respond, or even think about it. The phone in his pocket rang, and he sighed.

"I-I have to take this."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


16th April, 2020

"Peri."

"...Din."

"I want to talk to you."

Peri frowned. He placed his pen on the table next to his notebook. "This sounds serious."

Din glanced over at Omera and Pedro on the couch, then the floor, then turned his gaze back to the table. He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, but it did nothing to calm his nerves.

"I want to talk to you somewhere else."

He saw Peri's eyes dart over to Omera before landing back on him.

"Okay. Backyard?"

"Sure. Yeah."

Din shuffled to the door. Once outside, he lowered stiffly onto the bench. Peri didn't take a seat next to him, but it didn't matter.

"What's this about?" he asked, squinting through the sunlight.

Din took a deep breath of fresh air. It didn't help.

"About what we talked about yesterday. I wanted to ask about that."

He could see Peri thinking, mulling it over in his head, trying to remember what they talked about. Then, he stiffened, and despite the glaring sun, his eyes widened, and the colour physically drained from his face.

"Oh," he said.

"If you don't want to..."

"It's fine." It very clearly wasn't. "Just..." He drew a shaky inhale. "Yeah. Okay. Ask."

Din gnawed on his lip for a moment.

"All that," he began. "It affects you." He paused for a response, but it never came. Peri wasn't even looking at him. "So I wanted to know how it influences your relationship with Asher."

There was a pregnant pause. Peri glared at him over the rim of his glasses.

"You're asking if we've had sex."

"No. No!" Din leapt from his seat. "No, that's not what I meant. Or it is, but it's not like that. I meant..." He huffed. "Let me start over."

"It's a bit late for that."

"No, I can fix this. Wait." He held up a single finger. A tense moment of silence passed, and all the while Peri's glare did not waver even for a moment. "I'm asexual," Din finally managed to rasp. "I'm a sex-repulsed asexual."

"And?"

"And intimacy must be difficult for _you_ because of your trauma."

"I suggest you get to the point!"

Din clenched his fist. His nails dug into the skin of his palm. "_So, _if it affects _your_ relationship with Asher, then I need to worry about _my_ relationship with Omera."

The fierce glare turned into a confused frown, and Peri cocked his head to the side.

"Why?"

"I thought I was being clear."

"No."

"I'm asexual, and she's _not. _And I don't want that to-" he drew an unsteady breath. "I'm asking about you and Asher because it's similar, right?"

Peri squinted at him. "You're making a lot of bold assumptions."

"I didn't mean to-" Din huffed. He waved his hand dismissively. "Forget it."

He was halfway through the door, with his face burning, before Peri made any move to stop him.

"Wait," he called, "I want to understand, I just... this was all so sudden."

Din slowly settled back onto the bench. He kept his eyes firmly planted at his feet, and his fist curled into a tight ball. _Should've kept my mouth shut._

"Explain it to me," Peri said, also lowering himself onto the bench. "Slowly."

A gust of hot wind blew over them. Din grimaced.

"I want Omera to be happy," he grumbled. Then he corrected himself, "I want her to be happy with me." He lifted his head and stared out into the yard. "What if I can't give her that?"

Peri shuffled a little closer. "She seems happy to me."

"What if she's just pretending? For my sake?"

"Do you trust her?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you think she'd lie to you about something so important?"

Din considered this for a moment. He sighed. "I don't know."

"You're paranoid," said Peri, matter-of-factly. "That's fine, that's normal, but if you're not careful it's going to start ruling your life. To answer your question... no, I haven't been with Asher in _that_ way. And it doesn't affect the relationship because he understands and is willing to accommodate. If Omera is anything other than accepting, then it's high time you found a way out."

"She is accepting."

"You promise? Because I'm willing to go to Pascal about this, if you're uncomfortable..."

"I promise. I-I talked to her, early on. She said it's fine, that she's glad I told her. I guess I thought..."

"That it was too simple?"

"Yes."

Peri crossed his legs and hummed. "I suppose that's what you're used to. With the life you led. If something is easy, then it must be too good to be true."

One corner of the galaxy to the other, next row of coordinates, being tracked, so tired, just needed a moment... why couldn't it have been simple? Why couldn't the Imps let up?

"Thanks to you lot," he grumbled.

"Yes, well. Most of us had no choice."

_I nearly killed you._  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


17th April, 2020

"Chris?"

"Mm?"

He cracked his eyes open. Through the darkness, he could vaguely make out Ivana's outline, and her deep brown eyes staring at him as though at any moment, he was going to explode.

"Nothing. Just checking."

He took a moment to mull it over in his head. Then sighed. "I'll be fine."

"You don't know that," she said.

Sleeping was a gamble. He'd wake up and her hand would be wrapped around his wrist with two fingers pressed gently on a vein. Or she'd rest her head on his chest with her ear to his heart. And every morning, she gave that same small sad smile, despite the bags under her eyes that deepened with each passing week. The pregnancy enhanced her paranoia. So did the sleep deprivation. A vicious cycle.

He stared at the ceiling.

"Chris?"

"Mmf?"

"It's your birthday."

"Oh." He stole a glance at the alarm clock resting on the table. In blaring red numbers, it read 12:30, 17th of April. "I guess it is."

"Happy 36th."

"Mm."

She shuffled closer to him, pressed up against his arm.

"What do you want to do?"

"Sleep," he grumbled.

"What else?"

He tilted his head to look down at her. She stared up at him with puppy-dog eyes. He wanted to, by god he wanted to, it'd been so long since the last time and even the thought was enough to send him into a near frenzy, but...

"Not now. I'm too tired."

She buried her face in the crevis of his neck. "Okay."  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"Din, what happened?"

Halfway through brushing his teeth, he paused. Pedro peered at him from the door, a door he had just been about to leave through. But he'd halted, and turned. Din spit out the toothpaste and wiped his mouth on a towel.

"What?"

"When you went with Christopher to that place." A pause. "What happened?"

Din stared into the mirror, the toothbrush still clutched firmly in his fist. His own dark eyes stared back at him, tired and sullen.

"I don't want to talk about it," he managed to rasp.

"You don't want to, or you can't?"

He ran the tap and rinsed off his brush.

"Both."

The more his mind strayed from it, the better.

"But-"

"While I was down there, I pissed myself." He placed the brush back in its holder. "I mean that literally. I was terrified." He turned and met Pedro's eye. For once, he didn't tear it away. "I don't want to talk about it."

"...Okay. I'm... sorry."

Din waved his hand dismissively. From his pocket, his phone vibrated. He checked it. The same number from before. He declined the call.

"Who is it?"

"Wrong number."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


18th April, 2020

"Yes... yes, okay, thank you. Thank you very much."

His phone beeped. The call had ended. Chris let his hand drop to his side. Ivana stared at him, biting her lip.

"We can't go all the way to Nevada," she said.

"I know. I know... we could ask Robert? Or Elliot?"

"No, I would feel bad."

"Me too. That's what, six hours? Eight, if the traffic is bad?" He slumped on the bed. "Shit."

Ivana joined him. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"Djarin's been ignoring your calls?" she hummed.

"Yes. And I don't want to just," he made a meaningless gesture with his hand, "waltz on over there. _Again_."

"Maybe you have to?"

"No. No, I'm gonna keep trying. If he doesn't answer, then... I dunno. He deserves to know, he _needs _to know." He sighed. "Christ."

Ivana's hand interlocked with his. She took a deep inhale, then released it slowly.

"Worry about it later," she whispered into his ear. "There is too much worrying. I want to enjoy this comfort, while we have it."

So long, since they'd slept in a bed. A proper one, not a stupid mattress on the floor. Sam couldn't be happier, with the turn of events. She even helped in the garden, got dirt under her fingernails, anything to repay Robert and Elliot's hospitality. Chris tried to help, too, especially when Ivana was out there, but anything beyond watering the flowers had him panting. Elliot usually ushered him inside anyway.

"Feels weird," he mumbled. " 'M not used to it. Having... having food on our plates. Sleeping in a proper damn bed. There's fucking aircon here, I just..."

"It's a good thing though."

"Yes, of course, it _is_, but..."

"I understand. It's a change."

"It's a great change. It's bloody _brilliant_. I-I mean, we don't have to scramble to pay, we don't have to starve, or, or, or freeze." His vision became blurry. A knot formed in his throat. When he spoke he sounded strained. "But I still feel like shit. I'm so tired. I'm..." he drew a shaky inhale, "...in so much fucking pain."

Ivana ran her hand up and down his arm. A chill raced down his spine.

"Robert said he can get you medication."

"I don't want some stupid meds ruining my life again."

She sighed. "Those antidepressants did not ruin your life."

"They sure as hell didn't make it better. Look, it's... it's fine_. _I'm fine."

Her hand left his arm. The weight on the bed shifted as she moved to rest on both knees, facing him full on. She used one finger to tilt his head toward her.

"You're _not_ fine."

His vision blurred. "I know."

"Take the medication. You will feel better."

"Or I have to deal with side-effects."

"Better than pain, no?"

He scrunched up his eyes. A tear fell, Ivana wiped it away with her thumb.

"I'm here for you," she murmured.

She leaned forward, and kissed him.

They stayed like that for a moment, in the silence. A silence which suddenly wasn't so deafening, or lonely. Until she pulled away, and gravity fell once again over his shoulders.

"Soon, we can go home," she said. "Strange will take us home."

"It's been eleven years."

"Just a little longer. He will come."

"And if you gotta wait another decade?"

"Then we have people to help us. To support us. The difference now is that we _know _he will come."

Chris stared into her eyes. He grabbed her hand and gripped it tight between both of his palms. He knew that she knew what he was going to say, with how her eyes widened, asking, begging him not to.

So he didn't.

"I love you," he said instead. She gave a watery smile.

"I love you too, you silly oaf."  
  
  


* * *

  
  


_"Are you religious, Peri?"_

The phone on his chest rose and fall with his chest, as he forced himself to suck in deep breaths, and listen to Asher's voice.

"I used to be," he rasped. "Or I still am, I don't know. I don't pray anymore."

_"In your..." _hesitation,_ "dimension. Do you have your own god?"_

"Yes. Two. But that's... just for my planet."

_"A planet. Wow. So you're like, an alien, right?"_

"You're the alien to me." Peri smiled, though Asher couldn't see it. "But yes."

_"But you look human."_

"I am human. My reality's version of human, I guess."

_"You speak English."_

"We call it Basic."

_"Wow."_

"What about you?" Peri rolled over onto his side and rested the phone on the pillow. He pulled the covers to just below his chin. "Are you religious?"

_"Good question. I dunno. My parents are, we're Jewish, but... I dunno. I never bought into it. I'm agnostic, if anything, you know?"_

"Yeah." Peri sighed. "I understand. After all this... i-it became difficult. To keep believing. I suppose I still do, it's not something I can just shake away, even after the Empire beat my culture out of me."

_"The Empire?"_

"You really don't know anything about it...?"

_"It's a Star Wars thing, right? I never watched 'em."_

Peri chuckled into his pillow. "Yeah. It's a Star Wars thing. The Empire... took me from my home. They slapped a Kamino symbol on my shoulder and told me to make clones." He swallowed. "Or they'd kill me."

_"That's where the genetic engineering comes from."_

"...yes. It wasn't a lie, I just..."

_"I get it. I don't blame you. This is... this shit is fuckin' weird. I'm not even gonna sugarcoat it. When I went home, I just, whole time I was thinking, what the fuck? What have I gotten myself into? Why do I believe this bullcrap? But I experienced it. Space, portals, a fucking space-time wizard or some shit. And... and you. The not-you. Shit. I was..."_

There was hesitation. A shaky breath. Peri didn't interrupt.

_"I was there, and just... I couldn't get you outta my head. I missed you so much, even though I had this new guy who looked just like you, and... hell, Peri. I think... I think I really love you. Fuck, I love you. I wanna marry you. Would you let me do that? Can I marry you?"_

Peri tried to picture it; Asher lying in his bed, wrapped up under the covers like a burrito, and spilling his heart out. _"Can I marry you?" _he'd said. A teary-eyed grin split across Peri's face.

"Are you asking?"

_"Maybe. I dunno. Too early, probably."_

"I'd say yes."

_"You would?"_

By chance, Asher found him. Because Pascal decided to drag him outside. Because they decided to get coffee in some crappy café. Where would he be, then, if that never happened?

Alone. Miserable. So fucking tired. But now his notebooks lay forgotten in a box, and every night, he and Asher talked until the moon was well into the sky and they could barely keep their eyes open.

"I love you," he breathed. The words felt foreign on his tongue, but he'd never been more sure of anything in his entire life. "And you make me happy. _So_ _fucking_ happy. Gods, yes, I'd marry you. I'd marry you over and over, and I'd never get tired of it, because you're so beautiful, and so kind, and you accept me and you never force me to do anything that I don't want to."

_"No one should be forcin' you to do stuff, Peri."_

"I know. I know, no one has, just.. thank you." His voice cracked. "Thank you so much. I was- I was talking about it with a friend because, because he's asexual and he wanted to know about my experiences, and... it just, it made me realise how lucky I am. To have you. To be with you. I wanted to ask..."

He sat up in the bed.

"Do you think about it? Being intimate with- with me?"

There was the sound of rustling sheets. For a moment Peri feared he'd come on too strong, that it was too abrupt or invasive, but then there was a soft sigh.

_"...yeah." _The smile, the happiness he heard was gone and replaced by shame and embarrassment. _"I-I try not to. I know how you feel about it and it feels wrong to think about you like that, you know? Knowing what happened."_

Peri's face burned. "No, it's fine!" he squeaked, switching the phone to his other ear. "It is, I don't mind, really!" He cast a glance over at the wall connected to Pascal's bedroom, hoping that he wasn't being too loud. "It's fine," he repeated, quieter this time. "Does it make you... sad? That I don't- that I _can't..." _he trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. Asher's deep, deep sigh indicated that he didn't need to continue.

_"The truth? Yeah. Sometimes. Because you're hurt, and also because... yeah. But I can live without that, you know? I don't need it. No one needs it, anyone who says otherwise is a fuckin' liar. And an ass."_

"Maybe- maybe one day. Maybe one day it won't matter anymore. Maybe I can-" he drew a shaky breath and forced the image out of his head. "Maybe I can forget about her, and move on, and..."

_"Peri, nothing's gonna happen unless you're a hundred percent on board, yeah?"_

"But I want to, so bad. I think about it too, but I can't." He buried one trembling hand into his hair. _Too long, _he thought, as the memory of it being tugged and pulled invaded his mind. A relentless pang of pain spread across his scalp. Two tears fell onto his glasses, which he didn't bother to clean. "I can't. She's in my head." _I want to forget, please, let me forget._

Images of Christopher's pale, concerned face flashed in his mind. That stupid device clutched in his hand. With a simple shake of the head and a _sorry, _he denied something that Peri wanted, _needed _more than anything else. More tears fell onto the lens of his glasses and he forced them off his face. They fell off the bed and onto the floor, but he didn't care.

_"Calm down."_

"I can't, I-" Peri bit down hard on his hand to stop himself from sobbing out loud, but it did nothing except make him bawl harder from the searing pain of it. "I can't do this. I can't. I can't."

_"Peri, listen to me."_

"She's in my head."

_"She's not here. You're safe."_

His door creaked open. Pascal stepped in from the darkness of the hall, clutching a thick blanket in one hand. Peri wiped away the tears staining his cheeks, and sniffled.

"I have to go," he spoke, switching the phone off speaker.

_"Peri, no, wait!"_

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm... I'll call you back, I- five minutes."

_"...okay."_

The call ended with a beep. Peri's hand dropped to his lap. He stared down at his bare feet and refused to look up even when Pascal took a seat next to him.

"I heard crying," Pascal began awkwardly. "Is... everything okay?"

Peri shrugged. Then he shook his head.

"Did you and Asher have a fight?"

He shook his head again.

"Okay." Pascal sighed. "Well... recently, I- I went shopping. I bought this blanket. A couple, actually. I was gonna wait a bit, but... I mean, it's weighted. I thought it might help, for whatever's going on. I got one for Din, too. I heard they're good, I've never tried them, but I thought..." He unfolded it, and spread it across his knees. "I thought you might wanna try."

Peri stared at the blanket, for a moment, thinking. Then he reached out to it with one shaky hand. He slowly tugged it toward him.

"Weighted?" he murmured, mostly to himself, but Pascal responded anyway.

"It's supposed to simulate human contact, I guess. I heard it helps with anxiety. And other stuff."

_How much did it cost? _Peri kept the question to himself, knowing that it would be rude to ask. He wondered about Christopher, and while he never really struggled with sleep even without the illness, maybe, if it worked... well.

"Thank you," he sniffled. "Pascal, I..."

"Pedro. Please. I think I physically flinch every time someone calls me _Pascal_."

Despite himself, Peri gave a small smile. "Sorry. Pedro." He made a mental note of it to tell Christopher. "You... you've done a lot. For me. For everyone. You didn't have to get me this, and I don't want to be a burden, or-"

"You're not a burden. Honestly? I like the company. I hated living alone. Even with all this horseshit, this year has been... I dunno, incredible. You guys are my friends. Din's a brother to me. Maybe sometimes I'm grumpy or whatever, but..." he trailed off. Pedro gnawed on his lip for a moment with a thoughtful expression. Finally, he lifted his hand and rested it on Peri's knee. "I love all of you," he said. "Even Christopher, okay? But don't tell him I said that."

Peri chuckled. "I'll try to remember not to."

"Shit, I'd never hear the end of it. Uh... I'll let you get back. To Asher."

"Yes. Yes."

"Sleep soon, yeah?"

"I will. I- thank you." Peri hoisted the blanket off his lap and onto the bed. "For the blanket. And everything else."

"I don't need to be thanked. Just stay safe. Sleep well, eat well. That's all I want."

Pedro left. Peri slipped under the covers, including the weighted blanket which was now flung over the bed, then picked up his phone.

_i'm sorry about that, pedro came in to check on me_

_you're good you're good! do you wanna keep talking? I know it's late_

_i'd like to, yeah._

* * *

20th April, 2020

The phone mocked him. Din glared at it from the couch as it vibrated on the coffee table. Pedro tapped his foot restlessly on the carpet. Peri leaned on the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, while Omera and Winta silently drew together at the dining table.

"You don't know who it is?" Pedro asked.

"No clue," Din grumbled. "It's the sixth time they've called me this week."

"Who would be so persistent?" Peri sighed. He pushed himself off the counter just as the vibrating stopped. "Can I see the number?"

"You think you could recognise it?" Din unlocked the phone then handed it off to Peri.

"I have a _theory_. Your phone is so organised, wow. Okay... oh."

"...oh?"

"It's... Christopher's number. He left a voicemail."

Din snatched the phone back from Peri's grasp. He glared down at the screen, his thumb hovered over the play button, ready to press it, but... he stopped. And hesitated. _Why? _asked the voice in his head, and he frowned. _I don't know._

"It's Christopher?" he looked up at Peri.

"Yes, that's... yes. I don't know how he got your number, I'm sorry."

Din didn't care about how. He'd learn to stop asking _how. _What he wanted to know was _why. _Why was he so desperate? Why not reach him through Peri? Or come to the house in person, if it was so important? Was something stopping him? Had something gone wrong?

Why go through the effort of finding _his_ number when the easiest alternative was right in front of him?

A sense of dread settled in his stomach and climbed up through his chest into his throat, where it formed as a tight knot. Suddenly he felt cold, and his heart raced. Slowly he lowered his thumb onto the play button.

_"Call me as soon as you can, please."_

Quick, to the point. And somehow, terrifying. Not because of the tone, or because of the formality, or the deep baritone, though that was enough in of itself. No, there was weight behind those words, and it became quickly evident that he was the only one in the room feeling it.

"He wouldn't do this if it wasn't important," Peri insisted. "You should call him."

"What if it's something dangerous?" Omera joined their conversation, leaving Winta to her drawing, though they all knew she was listening, too. "I don't trust it."

Pedro only shrugged incredulously.

"He'll only continue to call you until you pick up," Peri huffed. "That, or he'll come here personally, and be awfully grumpy about it! Please. Do what he asks."

Omera frowned. "So he'll have Din running off to do his bidding? Into peril?"

"Chris isn't like that!"

"Well, that's what it-"

"Shut up," Din grumbled. Both of their mouths snapped shut. "I can't think."

"Din." Peri clasped his own hands and held them in front of him like he was praying. "He reached out to you. Specifically, you. Which means it's more than just important, it's _personal. _Otherwise he'd have gone through me. Please."

Din locked eyes with Pedro, if only briefly. But it was enough.

"Okay."

He pressed the dial button. He held the phone up to his ear. One ring, two rings. Then a click.

_"Finally," _Chris' deep baritone came through the speaker. Despite himself, Din shivered.

"How'd you get my number?" Din grumbled.

_"That doesn't matter. This is important."_

"Spit it out."

There was static. Thuds indicating footsteps. Pacing?

_"So, you know, about a week ago, when I was here, and I got a phone call?"_

"Uh-huh."

_"It was to do with-" _he hesitated, _"well, it's..." _he sighed. _"No simple way to put this. You might want to sit down."_

"I'm fine standing, thanks."

_"We found your kid."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're nearly as excited about this as I am, come scream with me in my [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/QxdaPYsMVn)


	49. Ad'ika

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over hill, over dale, through the valley and vale
> 
> Do not weep, do not wail, I am coming home to you

_Dearest Heidi,_

_Unfortunate to hear of Benjamin's injury. I expect to arrive at base next month, though I cannot linger. If you are to lose your husband, then yes, I shall take responsibility, if this is what you wish of me. Understand, however, that should Benjamin not make it, you, the Right Hand, must find a new nurse._

_Kindly, Eleis J._

* * *

  
  


_"You there?"_

Something stuck in his throat. Physically weak in the knees, his hands trembled. The phone slipped from his hand but he caught it. Only one word played in his mind, over and over,

_Ad'ika._

He held the phone up to his ear. Had to physically force himself to speak. It came out as a quiet, pained rasp.

"It's a trick?"

A moment of silence, one that he swore lasted a lifetime.

_"I wouldn't do that."_

"Promise me." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Please."

_"I swear on my life."_

He sank to the floor.

"Where?"

_"Nevada. One of my contacts found him in the middle of nowhere. He looks healthy, couldn't have been here long, two or three weeks at most."_

"You've seen him?"

Omera crouched down beside him.

_"I've got pictures. And a video, he was crying for you."_

"For me?" His voice cracked. Din bit down on his hand.

_"Are you... okay?"_

"No. Yes. I don't..." He forced an exhale through his nose. "Come here. To Pedro's house."

_"Are you sure-"_

"Please. Please."

There was static, a sigh. Footsteps. Words in a foreign language, and a muffled response.

_"Okay," _he finally said. _"Okay. Give me half an hour."_

There was a click. A beep. The call had ended. Din's hand dropped to his side. Omera took the phone from his loose grasp.

"What happened?" she whispered to him.

The room was still and silent. Din's heart thundered in his ears.

"They found him," he breathed.

"Who?" She brushed her fingers through his hair. A gentle caress, soft and kind. "Who did they find?"

She repeated the question when he didn't respond. She asked it again, whispered it into his ear, when he leaned forward and allowed himself to be engulfed in a warm embrace.

Her hand ran up and down his spine, trying to bring some semblance of comfort. No one disturbed them, not even Winta, watching from afar.

No one except Butterscotch. Even through her movements, the way she gradually made her way to Din's side, it was clear to him, that she knew. That she could sense it. He pulled himself from Omera's embrace, and scooped Butterscotch into his arm.

She didn't object when planted a kiss on her forehead. If she minded at all, she didn't make it clear to him. Rather, she purred. Quiet under most circumstances but amongst the deafening silence, it was like the rumble of an engine. And even with everyone watching, he couldn't bring himself to care even the slightest bit.

He opened his eyes. Her large yellow ones stared back at him. Not knowing, not understanding _why, _but willing and ready to be his comfort.

The wrong colour, the wrong size, but still all he could see behind her eyes was ad'ika.

Ad'ika.

The kid - _his _kid.

Alive.

Safe.

Out there, somewhere.

_He was crying for me._

Din lowered Butterscotch to the floor. She stared up at him as he rose to his feet, with Omera at his side. He didn't speak, though, didn't bother to reply when Pedro asked what was wrong. He only shook his head.

No one followed him to his bedroom, besides Butterscotch, though he felt their watchful eyes, laced with concern and fear.

He collapsed onto his bed. Butterscotch was quick to join him, even under the covers. He hugged her close to him, and she let him.

The lights were off, and the curtains were drawn. The room was dark. Din closed his eyes and imagined, for just a moment, that he were in the Crest, helmetless, with ad'ika in his arms, in a world where they could both live, away from fear, from hatred and malice, from greed. All the while, Butterscotch's purr kept him tethered to reality, unwilling to allow his consciousness to slip into an unrealistic fantasy, like it had so many times before, and in its fabled warmth confused and confounded him when hours passed in the blink of an eye with no memory or recollection.

She would keep him safe, and his breathing steady, and his sleep absent of dream or nightmare.

His door opened, some time later, though how much he couldn't be certain. There were footsteps, too heavy to be Omera's or Peri's but too light to be Pedro's. The shift in weight on his mattress was what made him open his eyes.

It was Christopher, though his back was turned. A duffle bag was flung over his shoulder, one that he tapped out of nervousness, and hesitation. Din sat up. Chris turned to look at him, surprised.

He unzipped the duffle bag, after a wordless exchange. Out of it he pulled a laptop, a cheap looking thing that seemed as though it had been build from scratch. Maybe it had been. Chris shuffled onto the bed, next to Din, Butterscotch sandwiched between them, and opened its lid.

He watched the cursor. It hovered on a folder with no name. Chris' finger hesitated over the touchpad.

Then, he clicked.

Difficult to see, through the darkness of the image and the tears that clouded Din's vision. But it soon became clear what he was seeing, what he was truly looking at, something he only dreamt of month after tumultuous month. He wondered if he was dreaming, and pinched himself, too. But it hurt. It was real.

The child, ad'ika, stood shrouded by shadow behind the corner of a cleanly house, with twigs clutched in his hands. His skin, once a grassy shade of green now grey from dust, dirt, and mud, which also stained his clothes, torn by whatever had befallen him. And then his face, a tormented expression, eyes brimming with tears and mouth stretched into a scream.

The next image was much the same, though blurrier, and further away. With each consecutive photo the child had run farther from the camera. So scared, unbelievably frightened, crying and begging for his _father._

And then there was the video.

Din hadn't been prepared. He'd have been lying if he ever said he was. It loaded. It played. First, only audio, muffled fabric sounds. Whatever had been covering the lens then lifted, perhaps their hand or finger, and he saw two stubs were there would be legs. An amputee, Din assumed.

The camera panned up, though the view was unsteady in their shaky hands, and into view came the child. Standing in front of a table, doing nothing else, but tearful and afraid. The person moved closer - using a wheelchair, had to be - and the kid let out a great cry as he leapt back, and didn't calm until they backed away again. The video ended with a jittery zoom, and a sigh from whoever was behind the camera.

Din raised his hand and pressed it against the frozen image of the kid. It stayed that way until the screen went black and his own face accompanied by Christopher's stared back at him. He dropped his hand.

_He's real. He's alive._

Nevada. That was what Christopher had said. How far away was that? Din knew all the states by heart, but distance and location was another matter. Still, it hardly mattered, Pedro would be more than willing to drive him once he heard about the news, and Din was more than prepared to sit the journey. As soon as possible, he thought to himself, already his eyes lingering on the suitcase sitting in the very corner of the room. They'd have to stay the night there, maybe a few nights depending on the situation. And then what? Does he just _take _the kid? No. They needed to take precautions. Despite CANDID's silence, they were still on the move and undoubtedly angry. Was it safe for the kid? No one could find out, they needed to keep him hidden. No walks to the park, no going outside. Even the backyard was a risk. Sooner or later ad'ika would get antsy. Jon could probably help hush it up if something did happen, but the threat of exposure was still there. And if they were exposed? If something happened? It wasn't like they could spin some story. Not like with Pedro, and the "long-lost-twin-brother" schtick, no. They'd need to go into hiding, from both CANDID and the government, but... Pedro wouldn't survive like that. Not mentally, he needed to see people and get outside or he'd go fucking crazy, Din had seen how quickly his energy drained when not surrounded by people other than the ones living in his house, and, well, come to think of it, maybe that was why he let so many people live with him in the first place. _Because he gets lonely._

But the kid mattered more.

More than Omera, more than Peri. _More than Pedro._

The thought disturbed him.

But it was the truth. Who was he? Without the kid? A shell of who he once was. Maybe ad'ika would fix him. Make him whole again. Save his soul from the fate he doomed it to, an afterlife void of the _manda - _something he could not bear to think about. Maybe with the kid, he would be redeemed. If he protected ad'ika, proved his worth, proved that he belonged where he once stood, _as a Mandalorian._

All those months. Spent crying over ad'ika. Wondering if he'd been killed. Or starved inside the Crest, when his father never returned to him. _But he's alive. _Din knew that now, and it was...  
  
  


...overwhelming. In every possible way. Din tapped the spacebar and the laptop's screen lit up again, though only to ask for a password, which Chris quickly and graciously typed for him. And as Din stared at those big, round, fearful eyes, his vision blurred with tears that spilled over his cheeks. A low whine forced its way through his throat, and without thought of dignity he hunched over himself and shook with the force of the sobs that wracked his entire body, from head to heel. The hot tears burned and stung his eyes like saltwater in a fresh wound.

Though he felt Christopher's watchful eye, he couldn't bring himself to care. By the time Din calmed down, he was still there, waiting, patient.

Finally, Din sucked in a breath.

"What do you wanna do?" Chris asked.

It was a simple question, and it had a simple answer, but still Din buried his hands in his hair with a deep sigh.

"I want my kid," he rasped. "I want my kid."

"I can get him for you. Bring him back here."

Din straightened his back against the headboard. He glared up at the ceiling fan running on a low hum.

"You'll scare him... he needs to know he's safe..."

_That video. _It played in his head, over and over. Didn't know where he was, didn't understand what had happened. _He needs me. I need him._

"It's an eight hour drive from here to Nevada," Chris said, "if the traffic is bad. I can book you guys a hotel, but... if you and Pascal want to go alone, then not only are both of you in danger, but so is the kid. He'll be safer if I-"

"Then you come with us."

Chris stared at him with wide eyes. He blinked once, twice, then a third time, bewildered. He lowered the laptop lid but didn't close it all the way.

"Huh?"

Din pivoted so that he was facing Chris properly. He crossed his arms over his chest. "The gods know you wouldn't be able to drive for that long. If you want to go, then you can come with us. Pedro can drive."

"No, I- I couldn't."

"With or without you, I'm going to get my _son_."

Christopher closed the laptop. He stuffed it back into the duffel bag, then slumped against the headboard. His eyes focused on a specific part of the room but Din could tell he wasn't really looking at it, and that he was just lost in very deep thought, which became apparent when his eyes glazed over after not blinking for a straight minute.

Finally he cleared his throat.

"I'm not gonna be the one to ask."

Din bit down a laugh. Whether he was laughing at Christopher's facial expression, or from the sudden onslaught of overwhelming relief, he couldn't be certain.

"Sure."

He messaged Pedro. Asked him to come upstairs, said there was something important to discuss, and that they needed his help. From the time it took Pedro to arrive at Din's door, you'd have thought he'd sprinted up the stairs.

Pedro took one look at Din and Christopher on the bed and frowned.

"Okay," he said. "This is serious. What's going on?"

Din waited for a moment, in case Christopher wanted to speak after all, but he'd gone as still and as pale as a marble statue.

"We need you to drive us to Nevada." Din stared at the space between Pedro's eyes, hoping it would give the illusion of eye-contact, and get across the importance of what he was saying. It worked. Pedro leaned on the doorway.

"Okay, fine, but why? Or... am I not allowed to ask questions?"

Din waited again for some sort of interjection from Chris, but it never came. So he shuffled off the bed, walked up to Pedro and took his hands. He allowed a moment of silence, mostly to mull the words over in his head. Most of him still didn't believe it. Any of it. How could he? After so long. Still... those pictures, that video.

_He's okay._

Din forced down another bout of tears. _No more crying._

"Chris found the kid," he whispered. Just quiet enough for only Pedro to hear. And yet, somehow, it felt louder than thunder.

He didn't miss the tears that filled Pedro's eyes. He didn't stop him, or back away, when he was suddenly engulfed in a tight, painful hug. It pressed against his arm, still in its sling, but he didn't care. He didn't protest, either, when his shirt became wet with Pedro's silent tears.

_Why is he crying? _It didn't matter, not really, but... it was intriguing, in some strange way.

"When do you wanna go?" Pedro whispered into his ear.

"As soon as possible," Din whispered back.

"Today?"

"Please."

Pedro stepped back. He wiped away his tears. "Okay. Pack a suitcase." He gave a watery smile. "It'll be like a road trip."

"We need to bring Christopher, too."

Pedro's expression fell. He frowned and cast a glance at Chris on the bed, who still remained concerningly unresponsive.

"In the car?"

"He said it'd be safer. For the kid. And I-" _trust him? _"-trust his judgement. Does it... make you uncomfortable?"

It was clear Chris wasn't listening at all, but Pedro lowered his voice anyway. "A little. He's... you know. Him. But if it _is_ safer, then I'm okay with it."

"Are you sure?"

"Din, this is... it's your son. Of course I'm fuckin' sure."

His voice cracked. Din didn't miss it.

"Why are you so emotional?"

Pedro frowned and furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean, why? I-I know it's _your _son, but... I've acted with the puppet, and I'm attached, too, but also, you can be happy! Finally, right? You can have your kid, and... you know?"

"My kid." The words felt good on his tongue. They always did, but now, even more so. "My kid... Pedro, I-"

But he was interrupted by a barrage of coughs. Not his own, no. He and Pedro both turned to stare at Christopher, who hacked violently into the crook of his elbow with his eyes scrunched tight.

"S-Sorry," he choked between coughs, "Sorry-"

Pedro stepped away from Din, and closer to the door. "If you wanna come, too, then you should go home and pack. I can drive by, pick you up."

Chris stared at him after one last weak cough. "U-Uh, sure, yeah, I'll- do you know the address? I'm living with Robert, now, and..."

"Oh, you are? That's... good. I mean, you look better. So that's good."

"Better? Oh."

Din hadn't notice before, but looking closer, it was true. Still skinny, yes, unhealthily, but nowhere near as bad as before, and by the looks of things, the fever was gone, too, and his hair no longer matted. _Good. That's good._

"Well," Chris continued. He fumbled with a tiny notebook that had been in his jacket pocket. "I'll give you the address, and..." He scribbled something down then tore out the page. He held it out as he got to his feet, and Pedro took it. "...I'll go and pack. Do you want me to- I mean, the others don't know, right? Should I stay, and-"

"No." Pedro's response was immediate. "You go back. Get your things. I'll come get you, and then you can direct us from there."

Chris considered this. He gnawed on his lip. "Okay," he finally said, and no more after that.

Downstairs, Omera, Winta, and Peri were still waiting, sitting in complete silence. Chris made immediately for the door, holding his head low and not even daring so much of a glance at Peri.

"Tell me what's happening," Omera demanded. "If Christopher is going to send you on another suicide mission, then-"

"No." Din shook his head. He approached Omera with his hands offered, and she took them. "No, everything's fine. But I do need to leave for a bit."

"Why?"

Din opened his mouth, to say something, anything, but the words died on his tongue. Pedro stepped forward.

"Chris found Din's kid. We're going to go get him."

Omera stiffened. Her entire body straightened like every muscle had suddenly snapped upward. She gave a small, soft smile that grew as her eyes widened.

"That's... incredible," she breathed.

Winta stared up at them from the dining table. Her pencils, pens, and erasers lay forgotten on top of a drawing of a house that grew more and more convoluted each time Din saw it.

"You found the baby?" her voice echoed from across the room.

"Christopher did," said Pedro as he turned to face her. "That's why he was here, so he could tell us."

"Is he coming back?"

Din remembered quite vividly the small rapport Winta and Chris had built in the yard. He played with her in the grass - or, rather, he laid in the grass and let her do to him as she pleased, including but not limited to tickling him. Or trying to, as it turned out he wasn't very ticklish at all.

Pedro shook his head. "Not until we have the baby. Then... I don't know." He turned to Peri, who gazed thoughtfully at the coffee table. "Pershing?"

He stared up at them. Cleared his throat.

"Chris told me he was... _looking_, but, I never imagined..."

Din furrowed his brow. "He's been searching for the kid?"

"Ever since Pedro told me the child didn't come through. I was confused, so I told Christopher, and he said he'd be on the lookout. I had theorised that, with his abilities, perhaps he'd protected himself. Knowing now, the nature of..." he waved his hand, "...all this, that might have been the case. If he somehow sensed the portal before it happened and prevented himself from falling through. But then why not do it the second time? And beyond that, how do we know it's the same child? How do we know it's not a different one from an alternate timeline? Then the original would still be abandoned in your ship, and somewhere out there a different version of you has lost his son." He stood abruptly from the couch. "I don't think you should go."

Din crossed his arms and frowned. "Why not?"

"Y-You don't have all the information," Peri stammered. "And besides, those _people,_" he spat the word like it were a disease, "are still after you. If you leave this house then Christopher can't protect you."

"We know, that's why he's coming with us."

Peri blinked. "Pardon me?"

"He's coming with us. Pedro's driving. He said it'd be safer if he came so we let him."

"He'll be... he'll be leaving Robert's house? But there's no place safer, especially for him, if anything it'll just put you in more danger, Christopher has a price on his head and I'm afraid to say I mean that literally!"

"We'll be _fine._"

"But you need to consider-"

"Peri."

"It might be a trap! A ruse! Had you considered that?"

"My son is out there! I'm going to get him back! I'm not gonna take advice especially from an _Imp like you!"_

Peri staggered backward. He swallowed. Blinked. Lowered himself back into the chair, and didn't say another word.

Din shoved his hands into his pockets. Huffed to fill the dreadful silence. "I'm gonna go pack," he said. And he left.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"That was horrible."

Omera stood in the doorway. Din glanced over at her as he threw another shirt into the suitcase.

"What was?" he grumbled.

"What you said to Peri. You know he's not a bad man. He's just worried."

Din zipped up the case. He lifted it upright. "He can worry all he wants. I'm going to get my son back."

Omera heaved the suitcase off the bed before he'd the chance to stop her. She grunted as she let it fall to the ground, then rolled it toward him.

"You're not supposed to be lifting heavy stuff," he grumbled as he took the handle. "Not for another month, until you can have that brace off."

"Well, I feel fine," she huffed. She feigned annoyance, then her face broke out into a soft smile. "Be safe, okay?"

"I'll do my best, but trouble finds _me_, not the other way around."

She chuckled and shook her head. "Just don't do anything rash. Find your son, and... and come home quick. Promise me?"

"I promise."

She held out her arms. Din stepped into the hug, and even looped his own arm around her small frame. Her breath tickled the back of his neck and sent a barrage of shivers down his spine.

"You know," she whispered, "I just called this place a home."

Din's eyes slid closed. "You did."

"I think I rather like it here. I think Winta does, too."

He buried his hand in her soft hair. "Does she miss Sorgan?"

"Sometimes, I think she misses it terribly. Her friends, the trees, the ponds. But other times, I see how she is with Peri, and Pedro, and Butterscotch, and I know that I'd have to drag her back kicking and screaming."

"What about you? Do you miss it? If Doctor Strange comes tomorrow..."

She pulled out of the hug, but let her hands linger on his arms.

"I don't want to lose you. I can't live the rest of my life never seeing you again. If going back to Sorgan means I can't spend my life with you then I don't want it."

Din grasped her hand. He held it up to his chin.

"I love you."

She flushed a vivid scarlet and gave a giddy grin. Din placed two fingers over her wrist and felt for the pulse that pounded under her skin.

"Before you," he continued, "I'd never... I didn't know what it felt like. But ever since Sorgan... I _love_ you."

"Since Sorgan?" Omera gasped.

"I didn't know what it was." Din swallowed. "At the time. And I was so confused, but I know now. I want to... be with you. I wanna marry you."

She stared at him, with those big round eyes. Din tore his gaze away, now, fearful that he'd said something wrong. His heart thundered in his ears.

"Then let's get married," she whispered. So soft, so quiet, that he almost missed it. "You can come back with me, to Sorgan."

"I can't..."

"Then we stay here."

Her hand cupped the underside of his jaw. As he bent into the soft touch, Din's eyes slipped closed. Millions of images flashed in his head all at once. A wedding, a proper traditional Earth wedding, in a garden with flowers and an arch over their heads, and Omera wearing one of those beautiful white dresses. Nothing too fancy, nothing over the top or cheesy, and not too many guests. It'd be small; Pedro would be his best man, and Omera could probably find a bridesmaid somewhere, maybe Sam or Ivana, and then Winta would be the flower girl, she'd carry ad'ika down the aisle, and help him bear the rings to them. The rings would be plain, like those of Chris' and Ivana's, elegant and delicate. By the gods he'd never take it off.

_But stay here?_

"Are you ready to go?"

Pedro pushed the door open. Din and Omera stepped back from each other, though didn't let their hands separate.

"I'm ready," Din said. "I'll be down in a minute."

"Okay."

Pedro nodded, then disappeared down the stairs. Once his footsteps faded away Din turned back to Omera.

"I need to go. If something happens while we're away..." he sighed. Omera's grim expression told him that she already knew what he was going to say. "My blaster is in the drawer."

"I understand," she said. "And I'll call the police, too."

"Uh, yes. That too. Probably a good idea."

She chuckled lightly with a fond shake of her head. Her hand lingered on his arm, soft and delicate. Then she looked down at their feet.

"You'll be gone a few days, I suppose."

"Yes." He caressed her elbow with his good arm.

"That's alright."

She looked up again. Their eyes met. Neither of them tore their gaze away. Din reached out with one trembling hand and brushed a single strand of hair out of her face, and tucked it behind her ear.

"Do you still wanna get married?" he whispered. She nodded. Her hand left his arm and found the underside of his jaw. She ran a finger along the jagged lines of an old scar. Slowly she drew closer to him, her breath tickling the surface of his skin.

Din closed his eyes. He didn't know what was happening - that was the lie he told himself, at least, so he could shove down the giddiness that arose in his chest which made him tremble.

The kiss was only quick, and shy, and he could tell by the tremor in her hand that she feared she was doing the wrong thing, that it was too early, that they should have waited longer - all these thoughts raced through Din's mind, too, but it felt _right. _So he shoved the paranoid thoughts away.

"I love you too," she said. "Be safe, alright?"  
  


* * *

The car came to a halt outside of Robert's home. Christopher already stood outside, waiting with Ivana, who was holding the heaviest of the luggage for him. Once they saw the car Chris kissed her on the cheek, said his goodbyes, took the luggage - which really only consisted of a small suitcase and a few plastic bags - and essentially dragged himself over to Pedro's car. Din noted the lack of the cane, and the apparent lack of a limp, but didn't bother to pry.

Chris slid into the backseat after loading all his things (save for one bag) into the trunk, and Din physically resisted the urge to press himself as hard as he could against the car door. He didn't know why he suddenly felt so unbelievably uncomfortable, but it hardly mattered. They'd be stuck together for eight or so hours regardless of comfort.

"You got everything?" Pedro asked. Chris only hummed, his eyes already drooping, and his breathing ragged from carrying all the stuff.

It had to be because of the sickness, Din thought. He couldn't imagine a man like Christopher struggling with such small luggage. Maybe he was biased, and he was so used to being strong and being around other strong people that he'd forgotten what the average person was like, but, it just didn't seem healthy.

Pedro took off after Chris gave him the address for the GPS. Only partway through their long, long journey, about half an hour, Chris unpacked the bag he'd been holding. He pulled out a thick, soft blanket, which he buried himself under, and a thick pillow that he put between him and the window, presumably to rest his head on. Less than five minutes later, his breathing deepened, and his entire body visibly relaxed. Like all the tension melted off his shoulders. Now with the fever gone, his hair soft, and just that little bit more meat on his bones, he looked peaceful. Almost... cute.

"He's asleep already?" Pedro murmured from the front.

"Looks like it," Din murmured back.

"I'm not surprised. Poor dude looked like he was gonna collapse."

"He always looks like that."

"Fair enough."

It was a strange sight, really. He looked so small, curled up on the seat, under the thick blanket, with his face buried in the pillow. Din found himself staring, though not really sure why. Probably the lack of interesting surroundings to divert his attention to, or the fact that he'd forgotten to charge his phone and he didn't want to waste its battery by using it. So, yes. He stared. It didn't matter, Chris was asleep.

Pedro played music over the radio. Quietly, so as to not disturb Chris, but Din had no doubt that they could wound up in a thunderstorm and he still wouldn't wake up. Two hours into the dreadfully dull drive it began to rain, heavier and heavier over the course of the next half hour, and Din began to wonder if his hypothesis would be tested.

"Sun's setting," Pedro sighed. "Might have to stop somewhere else for the night..."

Din did his best to hide his disappointment. Really, it was expected, leaving as late in the day as they did, knowing how long the drive would be.

"I needa stop for gas in a bit. After that I might see about finding a nearby motel, or something."

They drove for another hour before they finally found a gas station. The sun had long since set, and while it wasn't storming the rain definitely hadn't let up. Christopher, of course, slept the entire time, up until the point where the car came to a halt.

He stirred, and his eyes cracked open. He squinted out the window, confused.

"Refueling," Pedro explained. "Might get something from inside, you hungry?"

Din shook his head, and Chris did as well - then he appeared to reconsider and he nodded.

"Any requests?" Pedro asked. "Like, I dunno, a chocolate bar?"

"Uh..." His voice was hoarse. Tired. "Sure. Just whatever. I-I have a peanut allergy, though, so, just-"

"Gotcha. Anything else?"

"Unless they pack their food with bees..." Christopher paused to chuckle lightly to himself, "...no. No, that's- that should be it."

Pedro refilled the fuel tank, then sprinted through the downpour to the convenience store. Already Chris' eyes were drooping again, and his head rested against the pillow. Din reached out and poked him.

"Huh- what?"

"Don't go back to sleep."

"Mmf..."

He closed his eyes again, but kept himself upright. Din poked him again.

"Stop..."

"I said don't go back to sleep."

"I'm just... resting..."

"That's how people fall asleep."

"I'm fucking tired."

"You can sleep after you eat."

"Okay, _mum."_

He grumbled to himself, but kept his eyes open until Pedro returned to the car, soaking wet from the rain, and handed him a little chocolate bar that Din didn't recognise the name of.

"I looked at all the ingredients on the back of each one and this was the only one that didn't have 'may contain traces of peanuts', so if you die your ghost can sue the company."

"...thank you," Christopher whispered. He held the bar like it was some precious, delicate antique, that would break at any moment.

"No prob, bob. Eat it before it melts."

He unwrapped the very tip of the bar, and nibbled on it as the car revved back to life.

"Also I checked for any motels in the area. There's one about an hour away from here. I thought we'd stay there for the night, then drive the other three hours in the morning. That cool?"

Chris nodded. "That's fine, but... are you paying?"

"Course. I wouldn't ask you to."

"Are... are you sure?"

"It costs like 80 bucks, dude. It's fine."

Chris nibbled more on the chocolate bar and said nothing else.

"Hey," Pedro continued a moment later, "Speaking of, that address you gave me, it's a hotel, right? Tell me you didn't pay for it."

"Uh... no, actually, the owner owed me a favour, so..."

"Oh? Huh. Okay, good."

_Owed him a favour? _Din's curiosity was piqued, but he didn't want to pry. So he kept his mouth shut.

They arrived at the motel, just as Pedro said, barely an hour later. Christopher had long since gone back to sleep. Din was just wondering if they were supposed to carry him inside when Pedro reached back and shook him awake.

"Hey," he prodded. "Hey."

Chris mumbled something in a sleepy haze, then squinted over at Pedro.

"Mmmf?"

"Come on. We're here."

"Mmmmmf."

Christopher was the last to leave the car. Din waited for him on the path while Pedro ran inside for their room key. By the time Chris slumbered out, Pedro had already returned. He led them to the room. Fumbled with the key for a moment - old and rusted - but eventually it clicked and he shoved the door open.

"There's only two beds, uh... I'll take the couch."

Din shook his head. "We can just share. Right?"

He was met with a blank stare. Chris occupied himself with the furthest bed from the door.

"...or I can take the couch."

"No, no! It's fine, we can share, sure. Just surprised. I guess."

"We've shared a bed before..."

"I know. But it's been a while. Sorry."

By the time Din finished brushing his teeth, Christopher had well and truly passed out. He _had _changed his clothes, at least, which was more than anyone would've expected given how truly exhausted he was, but he hadn't bothered to unfold the covers at the foot of the bed. Din sighed. He bit his lip. When he was sure Pedro wasn't looking, he unfolded the blankets and pulled them over Chris' shoulders. _It's a cold night._

"Pedro?" he called quietly. Pedro hummed. "Is he... sick?"

He froze.

"You can tell?"

"I had to help him up the stairs, once. He said something about 'not enough spoons'. I looked that up later and people with chronic illnesses and physical disorders use spoons as a metaphor for how much energy they have during the day."

Pedro hesitated, then nodded slowly. "It's not my place, but..." he lowered his voice to a whisper. "He has leukemia."

"That's a type of cancer."

"Blood cancer, I think, yeah. It makes him tired, that's why he's..." he gestured vaguely in Chris' direction, "...like that."

Din stared at him. Peaceful, in his sleep. "Is he dying?"

The resulting silence was the only answer he needed.

* * *

_Eleis,_

_If Ben dies you won't have a Right Hand anymore. I guess that just leaves Gabriel, right?_

_Heidi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> submit commissions to support me on [ fiverr!!! ](https://www.fiverr.com/share/mYmx8V)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/QxdaPYsMVn) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)


	50. Cane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By god, I'll bloody up my hands
> 
> With everything I am
> 
> To cut away the mountains I've made
> 
> And fill the dales below

_Dearest Heidi,_

_I request, with utmost respect, that you do not test my patience. Enclosed within this letter I have provided medicines._

_Heidi, you know full well that it is not quite yet as simple as leaving. I know you understand this. You are my Right Hand, just as much as Gabriel is my Left. You two are irreplaceable! It would, I’m sure, be a shame to, shall we say, pass you on?_

_Kindly, Eleis J._

* * *

_The night was silent, a silence that not even crickets or traffic cut through. The bedsheets were cold. The room was pitch black. With one trembling hand he fumbled for the bedside lamp's switch. It didn't turn on. He tried it again. It didn't work. He snatched his phone from the table, and from under the pillow, he took the pocket knife._

_He swept the phone's torchlight across the entire room, right to left. From the entrance to the far wall. He lingered the light on the bathroom door. Open. Only a crack. They forgot to close it._

_The floor creaked and moaned under his feet, even as he stood on the very tips of his toes. The dark abyss between the door and the wall appeared larger and larger with each step. His pale, bony hand reached forward and kept reaching until it met the doorknob._

_He stared into the darkness. His torchlight did not penetrate it. The greedy abyss swallowed it, and crept from beyond the doorway for more._

_Then there was a great tug. Like someone was on the other side, they heaved the door away from him, from his grasp, and he let out a great yell, his hand clenched around the doorknob and he slammed it shut. The knob twisted and churned in his grasp, he grappled with it, strangled it until his hands bled black and blue, and with one last cry_ he found himself back in bed in a room illuminated by soft moonlight.

Midnight, the clock read. He switched on the table lamp. The warm yellow light lit up the darkness. Cars passed, and crickets sounded. Pascal snored in his sleep. But Djarin sat up straight with a book in his hand and a tiny handheld torch in the other. Once he caught Chris' gaze, he tilted his head to the side, in that way that he does it.

"Bad dream?"

Chris released his breath. "Something like that."

He gazed again over at the bathroom door. Still closed. _Just a bad dream. _He stared down at his hands. Ever so slightly fatter than before. The ring sat better on his finger.

Chris stood from the bed on two shaky legs, taking his phone from the bedside table. He didn't stumble or falter on his short trip to the bathroom, but hesitated before the door.

He swallowed the fear, took ahold of the handle, turned it, shoved open the door, and flicked on the light.

It was bright, blindingly so, but a comfort. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. Avoided his reflection in the mirror, and sat himself on the floor, against the wall.

With a shaky hand he dialled Peri's number.

It rang. Once, twice, three times. Then there was a click.

"Hey... Peri?"

_"Wha'sup?"_

"Did I wake you?"

_"Yeah, but I'm 'wake now, wha'sup?"_

Christopher opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His jaw hung open, then it snapped closed again. He swallowed.

_"This important?"_

"No." _Yes. _"I- nevermind. I'll call you back tomorrow. Go back to sleep, I'll-"

_"Look, you cunt, you woke me up. I don't care how stupid it is, tell me what the fuck you want."_

Chris slid down the bathroom wall. His thighs met the cold tiling as he stretched his legs out over the floor. With his right arm supporting his left, he held the phone up to his ear, and swallowed a harsh knot inside his throat.

"I don't wanna bother you," he rasped.

_"It's too late for that. Say your shit so I can go back to bed."_

_But that's the thing, _his mind sobbed. _There's too much to say._

"I just... I just gotta talk," he rasped. "Just for a bit."

_"It's the middle of the night."_

"Please."

Dead silence. Chris' heart thundered in his ears. He opened his mouth to plead once more before Peri interrupted him.

_"Something's wrong."_

"What... what happened?"

_"No. That's not what I meant."_ There was a brief pause. _"Something's wrong with you."_

Suddenly dunking his head underwater and not coming up to breathe sounded appealing. "Thanks."

_"That's not what I meant, and you know it, you moron!"_

Chris held up his hand and bit down hard. It did little to stop the sob from escaping his lips.

_"Chris?"_

"I gotta go-"

_"Chris!"_

He hung up.

The phone fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor. He dug his hands into his hair, his nails into his scalp. With his knees against his chest he rocked back and forth, back and forth, trying and failing to stop the onslaught of hot tears streaming down his face.

Silent.

He'd learned to be silent. Screaming brought nothing. When the tears stopped, he slumped against the wall. The phone just within grasp. With flashes of memories ingrained into his brain, he took it, and dialled one last number.

The first time didn't work. It rang through. No one answered. He almost gave up. Then he tried again. His finger hovered over the end button when he heard the click.

_"Huh?"_

Christopher stared up at the ceiling.

"Hi. Sam."

_"...wha's going on? Why are you calling me?"_

Her voice was quiet. A soft whisper. Sleeping across the hall from Ivana, downstairs from Robert and Elliot, needed to be quiet. Wouldn't the children be returning soon?

"I wanted to tell you something."

_"...okay."_

"Did I wake you?"

_"No, I was... reading."_

The lie was obvious. He didn't push.

_"Hey, tell me what's going on! Don't go all silent! Why are you calling me?"_

"This is important."

_"You do still have Ivana's number, yeah? You know, your wife?"_

"Please listen."

Silence. He took a shuddering breath. The cold tiles now colder. His throat tightened. He coughed into his hand before continuing.

"I just wanted... to..." Another breath. "I slapped you."

_"Well spotted."_

"I'm sorry."

_"Well." _No longer bothering to whisper, but still quiet and hushed. A low murmur. Easier to hear. Chris closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe. _"That's that, then."_

"No it isn't," he rasped. "I'm sorry for everything. For hurting you. For yelling at you. And I know that it doesn't- it doesn't change anything. I know that it doesn't change anything and it never will and I was cruel and a stupid apology won't _fucking _change that but I'm _sorry, _and-"

_"Wait."_

He stopped.

_"Stay there. Don't go anywhere."_

There was the sound of shuffling sheets then the pitter-patter of bare feet that grew quiet and quieter as Sam walked further away. The abruptness of the situation had Chris' mouth hanging open, until he coughed again.

Two minutes. Four. Five, until he finally heard footsteps again - but more than one set, this time. Sam, yes, but heavier ones, and accompanied by the familiar click of a cane.

_...bitch._

_"Christopher?" _Robert's voice echoed from the receiver. Chris glared at the stupid phone until his eyes began to water.

"I'm here," he growled.

_"I don't know what's going on, but I'm guessing you need to talk."_

"What did she say to you?"

_"Nothing except that she's concerned. Talk to me. I'm sitting in my office, no one else is listening."_

"I'm not your patient."

_"Then allow me to be your friend. Would you?"_

He tried to picture it. Robert sitting in his office, the only light emanating from the little table lamp. Or maybe that old oil lamp that he brought from his home.His hand hovering over his notebook, a fresh new page with a fresh new date.

_I'm not your fucking patient._

"I'm gonna go back to bed. Bye."

_"Hold on a moment, if you would, for me, please? I just want to talk."_

"I'm gonna sleep."

_"Just a minute of your-"_

He snapped the phone shut. The room delved into suffocating silence. His phone began to ring again, and he let it play out. Shoved it into his deepest pocket, then stepped out of the bathroom.

Pascal still slept soundly, and loudly, but Djarin no longer sat next to him. He stood in the kitchen with a glass of something in his hand, slowly sipping it.

"Hi," the man grumbled upon seeing Christopher emerge from the bathroom. "You were in there a while."

He shrugged. "Upset stomach."

"A blatant lie, but I won't hold it against you."

_Right. _Who was to say he hadn't studied body language? Or maybe it was really that blatant. Didn't matter.

He changed the subject. "How does it feel to be getting your kid back?"

Djarin sighed. He twirled the remaining liquid in his glass. Not water, what was it? "I dunno. After so long..."

"I get it." Chris hoisted himself up onto the kitchen counter. He swung his legs back and forth. "You'd just accepted it, right? That he was..." he waved his hand, "gone?"

"Yeah. I guess. Hey..."

"Hm?"

"Where's your cane?"

Chris' expression fell. He averted his gaze to the floor. "Gave it back to Robert."

"You had a really bad limp. But it's gone now."

He smiled bitterly. Djarin continued.

"You're on medication, aren't you?"

"So what if I am?"

"I'm not judging you. I'm the last person who would- I mean, I know how debilitating pain can be. What caused the limp?"

Hardly remembered. Didn't want to.

"Something in the explosion. Shrapnel, maybe. Probably." He reached down to the hem of his pant leg and revealed the ugly scar situated on his shin. "Robert said that he couldn't... that he couldn't remove all of it. Unless I take the stupid pills for my whole life, then..."

"Are the pills a problem?"

"Hell to swallow, for one. I feel like I'm fucking choking every damn time. And then..." He took a deep breath. Then shook his head. Hoped it would go unsaid, and that Djarin would understand, but he didn't. He persisted.

"And then?"

Stupid pills in a stupid bottle. "The last medication I took was when I was still a teenager. Back then, with so many, you know, hormones, and... stress, from my diagnosis. I got addicted. Or, dependent, I guess. I just- I know they're an entirely different drug but I-I'm really scared that I'll fall back into it. That dependency."

At Djarin's expression, he shook his head and scrunched his eyes. "Sorry."

"No, don't."

"I shouldn't unload my childhood trauma on you."

"I just didn't expect it."

"It's mine, not yours, so-"

"Seriously, it's fine." When Chris looked up again Djarin had come closer. The glass abandoned on the counter behind him. "Robert says... that it's good to share... feelings. About stuff."

Chris scoffed. "He says that a lot."

"Well, he's a psychologist. He's supposed to say that, it's his job. Is he- you live with him now, but are you one of his-?"

"No. He offered and I refused."

"I think he could help. You. He helped me, he made me realise things."

"Like?"

Djarin blew out a deep breath. "You know. Stuff."

"You don't have to tell me, I just—"

"It's fine. He made me realise that... I prefer this life." Chris raised an eyebrow. Djarin hastily continued. "Not being stuck, not being stranded. But domesticity. Omera, Winta, and now the kid? I couldn't... have that. Before. I didn't have..." He paused. Chris didn't miss how his eyes flicked to Pascal, still fast asleep and breathing deeply. "...anything. Just my armour and my ship. My weapons. It was stupid. I was stupid. I was going to give up the kid just because I was told to. Because I thought it was the right thing to do. I dunno, maybe it is? But I could never... after all of this, every stupid night I spent-" he hesitated, "crying. Over him. I couldn't give him up. Could you?"

Chris stared at him and blinked. "Could I what?"

"If he was your kid, and someone told him to give him up so he could be safer. Would you?"

Ivana's warmth. Her tears. Throwing up every morning, fighting for so much just to see the pregnancy through. Knowing, knowing they couldn't keep the baby. Why? What was the point?

"It's selfish," Chris' voice cracked, "to want to keep him."

Djarin looked hurt. He turned his eyes to the window and the moonlit street outside. Then his eyebrows furrowed.

"You're... projecting."

Chris said nothing.

"You are, aren't you? You have a kid?"

When he shook his head, Djarin's eyes widened.

"Ivana's pregnant," he breathed, like it was some incredible revelation. "How long?"

For a moment he considered not answering at all. "Five months. About."

"That's just as long as I've been here. When did you find out?"

"About a month ago. Maybe a bit more. I lose track of time."

She cried — no, _sobbed _when she told him. Five separate pregnancy tests, laid out before her on the table. Offered them to him like a thief with a guilty conscience. _"After last time," _she'd cried, _"I didn't want to tell you—"_

Then she had to insist, over and over, that it wasn't his fault. That they both made the decision. That they both weren't careful enough. _But I know it's my fault._

And now...

"What are you gonna do?" Djarin stepped even closer.

_I don't know. _"Forcing a kid to live like we do is cruel. And we're not gonna abort, so- so- we'll have to give them up. Somehow. Either way, Eleis will want them dead so the baby can't be associated with us at all, we'd need to... I dunno. Drop them off on someone's door. All Harry Potter-like. Maybe there's a prophecy out there that says our kid will defeat Eleis." He paused, scrunched up his face, then coughed into his elbow. "Fuck."

Djarin tilted his head to the side. "You've been coughing a lot."

"Think I might be gettin' a cold. I dunno. See how I feel tomorrow, I guess."

"Speaking of tomorrow." Finally Djarin downed the last of whatever had been in that glass, and set it in the kitchen sink. "You should go back to sleep."

_Probably. _Still, he hesitated. His eyes lingered on the bathroom door. He didn't even keep that knife under his pillow, he'd leave it in a pocket or in a drawer — on occasion, yes, he slept with the damn thing, especially after Ivana and Sam were taken, but... it was rare. Ivana told him not to do it, that she didn't like it, that it was dangerous.

Suddenly there was a weight on his shoulder. He looked and saw Djarin's hand grasping it.

"Do you have nightmares often?" he asked, in a quiet, kind sort of tone. Chris shook his head.

"I don't even dream, mostly. If I do it's never anything cohesive, you know? More like... like..." He made a meaningless gesture with his hands. "Abstract thought? Shapes, ideas. If they ever mean anything I usually forget anyway so— so—"

"It must have been jarring."

"Yeah. I guess. I-I think the only nightmare I can remember properly is—"

Djarin stared expectantly. Chris' jaw hung open, the words ready to come off his tongue, but his lips refusing to move. Suddenly a chill overtook him. He shivered.

"F-Forget I said anything," he stammered. "Goodnight."

As he hopped off the counter Djarin's hand caught his arm. They stared at each other in silence, though neither meeting the others eye. Finally, Djarin released his grasp.

"Robert says that—"

"Talking is good. I know. But I really..." _can't. _"Just not now." _Please forget about it._

"...alright."  
  


* * *

  
  


"Is he asleep?"

"Think so."

"Could you wake him up?"

"So early?"

"I want to get breakfast. From like, a restaurant."

Din shuffled over to Christopher's bed. He did end up going back to sleep, very soon after their talk, but Din didn't miss how he tossed and turned throughout the rest of the night.

He slept peacefully now, though. Wrapped up like a burrito in the covers, his face half-buried in the pillow, and his hair all ruffled and messy. Din reached out and gently shook his shoulder.

Chris' eyes cracked open. Still glazed over, tired, not really seeing anything, until he looked up at Din peering over him.

"Wha'time issit?" he slurred.

"Seven in the morning. Pedro wants to get breakfast."

"S'ven." His eyes glazed over again, and his head slumped back into the pillow. "Can't get up... I can't..."

Din thought it was an exaggeration - as any reasonable person would — until he saw the real, physical tear escape from Christopher's eye and soak into the pillow.

Din kneeled down on the floor. "We can— we can bring you something back. If you really can't get up."

He knew enough to understand how badly the leukemia — especially untreated — would affect Christopher. Still, seeing it, properly, and knowing why...

Suddenly there was a weight on his shoulders and a heavy sensation in his chest. He made no effort to shove the feeling away.

"I wan'... I wanna get up... help me get up...?"

So earnest. A look that begged him to please, please help. So Din shoved his arms as best he could under Chris' frail frame and hoisted him into a sitting position.

"Fuck..."

"You don't have to come with us."

" 'S fine. 'S fine. Help me up..."

Din clutched his arm as hard as he could without bruising it so that Chris could pull himself to his feet. He swayed, side to side, eyes still half-closed, then took a deep breath.

" 'M sorry." He sniffled. "I'm sorry."

"Just try not to collapse." Din clasped his shoulder, firmly, then, recovering his wits, and eager to escape from Chris' confused gaze, he dragged his feet back to where Pedro stood.

"Is he okay?"

"I did research last night and I know leukemia causes fatigue but this seems excessive."

"You did research?"

"Yes, I- oh, shut up, I just wanted to know more, it's- it's interesting."

"Interesting. Sure." He winked, and Din grumbled under his breath. "Chris? You good?"

Christopher had slipped into his shoes, but not changed out of his pyjamas. Too small for him, Din noticed, the shirt was short enough that it just barely revealed his abdomen. Only barely.

"Might just... go out like this. 'S okay?"

"In your pyjamas?" Pedro shrugged. "Hey, man, whatever floats your boat. Looks comfy."

"Mhm... is."

_He's delirious. _They both watched him lift his bag from the floor and loop it over his shoulder with more difficulty than healthy, then drag his blanket from the bad and wrap himself up in it.

He sniffled. "I'm ready."

"...are you sure you wanna bring the blanket?" Pedro asked. Chris nodded, with his eyes half-closed. "Okay, then. Well, it's just a five-minute walk, so."

Even in the early morning daylight, Chris still looked as pale as paper. His condition didn't improve, either. He dragged his feet on the concrete path and kept his head down like it was too heavy to keep up. Every now and then he coughed to the side, and once he stopped entirely to sneeze very loudly at the wall of a building. Then he'd stammered an apology, and kept walking.

"You got a cold, Chris?" Pedro asked.

"Yeah." A quiet sniffle.

"Do you need tissues?"

"Mm... I have some."

"Okay."

It _was_ only a five-minute walk, even with Chris' slow shuffle, but it still felt like hours, especially in the cold morning air, which was initially refreshing but was now suffocating. So he was grateful when they finally arrived at the little, cozy, and warm restaurant.

'Restaurant' was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like a café, if a large one. A cafe that served breakfast foods.

The three of them took a seat at the far end of the café, right near the bathrooms. Each table was separated into booths by leather seats. Pedro sat right against the wall, and Chris next to him. Din took his seat opposite.

"The menu's on the wall." Pedro squinted at it. "What d'you guys want?"

Chris tilted his head to peer at it. He took so long that for a moment Din wondered if he was so tired that he'd lost the ability to read.

"Porridge?" he said at last, and Pedro nodded.

"Sure. I'll probably just have like, cereal, or something. Din?"

"Just... toast."

"Just toast? Nothing else?"

"Maybe... jam?"

"Sure."

Pedro ordered on behalf of all of them - always the less _socially anxious _one - and they waited. In silence. And more silence. Even with the surrounding chitter-chatter, the silence was deafening, though at least Christopher didn't seem to mind. In that he was far too exhausted to even notice.

It was a relief when their food finally arrived, and Chris had become coherent enough to thank the waiter by then.

He stared at his porridge for a moment, spoon clutched tight in his hand, like he couldn't really believe it was actually there. His senses caught up to him, though, and he began to slowly shovel the porridge into his mouth.

"What time did you sleep last night, Din?" Pedro asked. _Small talk._

"Too late," Din sighed. "I couldn't sleep."

"I saw you drank some of what I brought?"

Din blushed. "...yeah. You said I could!"

"I know! I know! I'm just surprised."

At this, Chris, who apparently wasn't deaf after all, looked up at them.

"I wanted to ask," he rasped, "but never did. What were you drinking?"

Din face grew somehow hotter and he spread a generous amount of jam onto one slice of toast. "Just something to help me sleep."

It had been so long, since he last drank alcohol. So long that he couldn't even remember it, and he distinctly recalled hating it. But he figured it might help, and... it did. A little. It wasn't like he got drunk, no, he only had the one glass, not enough to have any affect, and Pedro _said _that he could if he wanted to, and, sue him. He wanted to try.

"Oh." Chris understood, and got back to his porridge. "I can't drink."

"No?"

"I-I could. Probably. But I shouldn't."

Pedro cut in. "Pershing told me. He said that you almost died the first time you had alcohol."

Chris gave a small, tired, bitter smile. "Heart attack. Yeah."

"Jesus."

"I'm just lucky I was at home, and, my parents were around. They... called the ambulance..." he trailed off. Bit his lip, and stared down into his porridge. "Wasn't the first time. I was a- a sick kid. Always sick. I have, uh..." he paused to clear his throat, "an immune system disorder. So, so I can't- getting sick can be real real bad, so I- yeah. Even if it's just a cough, you know?"

As if on cue, he coughed into his elbow.

"...are you gonna be okay?" Pedro took a spoonful of his cornflakes. Chris only shrugged. Sniffled.

"Might just be a cold. Might kill me. Who knows, right?"

He smiled, as though this was a normal thing. To him, it probably was.

Din bit into his toast in an effort to rid himself of the chill that travelled down his spine and took over his body, and it worked a little, until he glanced up again and saw Christopher staring into the distance with a cold, blank expression. Din exchanged a look with Pedro. He'd felt it too.

"What're you thinking about?" Pedro asked, slowly. "Chris?"

"...N-Nothing. Hey, I'm-" He shuffled out of his seat, wincing as he did so. "I'm gonna go to the, the bathroom."

Din didn't miss the limp as he hobbled away, a sign of his medication wearing off. Was he just embarrassed to take it in front of them? Din thought back to their conversation the previous night. He wouldn't get addicted so quickly, would he...?

"I hope he's okay."

* * *

The bathroom was cold. So cold that it made him shiver, and wrap the blanket further around himself. His good leg jiggled up and down, up and down, while the other stung with each slightest movement. Like electricity, bolts of pain shot up his thigh, into his hip. The pill bottle was in his hand, but he couldn't bring himself to unscrew the lid, even as tears spilled onto his cheeks, even as he bit his lip to stop himself from crying out loud.

He sat on the toilet lid. It was hard and uncomfortable but at least the incessant screech of his surroundings didn't make him want to _scream _like it did in seated at that fucking table. 

Everything felt wrong, his chest burned, his _leg _burned, his head was so heavy that at any moment he would keel over. Despite the shivering he was _hot _and every time he coughed phlegm came up from his lungs and made him gag. 

He kept his hand plastered over his mouth, but it didn't stop the sobs from escaping his lips. Someone knocked on the stall door. A voice he didn't recognise, some random stranger, asked if he was okay. He didn't respond. Couldn't respond. 

He waited until he was the only one left, before he stumbled out from the stall and limped to the sinks. He gripped its side with both hands and enough force that his knuckles turned stark white. Too weak to stand up straight, leg in too much pain. The pill bottle mocked him.

He'd need to get back to them, eventually. Or they'd come in and check in on him themselves, he knew they would. He'd need to take the pills and limp back and finish his porridge before it got cold.

With all his weight on his good leg, he reached one hand forward and took the pill bottle. With the other, he unscrewed the cap, and took two tablets from inside. No water to take it with. He swallowed them dry.

It would take a while, for them to take effect. Thirty minutes, at least, he knew this. And he couldn't wait around for much longer. 

"Okay," he rasped. "Okay."He used the sink to hobble himself toward the door, then limped the rest of the way. The wort of it was over, he just needed to wait. Sit, finish his porridge, suppress the coughing. It was _fine._

He pushed open the door. The noise blasted his ears, by god it was deafening, but his earphones were in his backpack, he could use them. _Yes. _

But someone else sat at their table.

Grey hair. Thin shoulders, a thin waist. A brown jacket and a button-down shirt.

A cane.

Like he'd been doused in cold water, like a bucket of ice had been thrown against him from behind. That man looked at him, met his gaze with a cold grin, but all Christopher could see was the ugly scar across his eye.

"Hello," came his heavily accented voice. "I was resting my leg, your friends happily offered a spot!" Never once did that warm smile falter, or his cold glare waver.

Pascal looked up, craned his neck back. "You return! You feeling okay?"

Christopher straightened his posture. He clenched his fists and his nails dug into the skin of his palms. His voice trembled with each word. "We need to go."

"Chris?"

Djarin looked up. Hadn't been paying attention, had been doing something on his phone. He glanced between all three of them, before his eyes rested on the man sitting beside him. The one who had him trapped in his seat.

"We need to go," Chris repeated himself. "Now."

"Is something wrong?"

Djarin took one last look at his surroundings, and suddenly he'd disappeared under the table despite the tight squeeze, and crawled out the other side. _He understands. _Chris gave him a thankful nod but did not for one moment allow his eyes to wander.

"Let's go, Pedro." Djarin held out his hand. 

He looked at them. Confused. His head tilted to one side. "But what about-?"

"Let's _go._"

Maybe he sensed the urgency, or maybe it was Christopher's frantic expression, but Pascal slipped from his seat without another word. Djarin ushered him toward the door. Out of the cafe. Christopher followed, one step in front of the other, avoid eye contact, _get out, _but his path was blocked. He stared down those cold blue eyes. The smile was gone.

"Just when we were getting acquainted." 

Despite the millions of questions that invaded his mind, and the fear that infiltrated his body, all he could croak out was, "Why?"

_Why now? Why here? _

"I imagine that you understand why. Christopher." He smiled, then, a warm smile, a trick, then stepped to the side. "I will be seeing you."

He clenched his fists. Chris raised one hand, and one finger.

"Va te faire fourtre."

He was grateful to leave with at least some degree of satisfaction.

* * *

They packed their bags as soon as they could. No one spoke. Christopher refused to explain. By eight-thirty, they were in the car.

"Who was he?"

Chris stared out the window. He continued to stare until that little motel was well out of sight. Only then did he answer Djarin's question.

"That was Eleis."

* * *

_Eleis,_

_You’re threatening me._

_Heidi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally a lot angstier
> 
> "Va te faire fourtre" means a lot of things because french is like that but in this context, it means "go fuck yourself".
> 
> submit commissions to support me on [ fiverr!!! ](https://www.fiverr.com/share/mYmx8V)
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/QxdaPYsMVn) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)


	51. The Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like constellations imploding in the night  
Everything is turning, everything is turning  
And the shapes that you drew may change beneath a different light  
And everything you thought you knew will fall apart, but you'll be all right

** _Okay, so, I've decided that for now, I'm going to stop doing the asterisks. I know they're helpful, but I'm also aware that they ruin the flow and the immersion of the story. I will still do trigger warnings at the beginning of chapters. If you've no past issues with the content I choose to write about, feel free to skip the trigger warnings so that you can have a purely blind reading experience. If not, please do read them when you can._ **

** _I WILL continue to do the asterisks for Peri's past._ **

** _The beginning of this chapter includes potentially triggering content such as suicidal ideation. Please read at your own discretion._ **  
  
  


* * *

_"Hello, Christopher."_

It wasn't that he didn't trust them. He did, he really did, after everything that happened. But some things needed to stay private, and as far as he was aware neither Djarin or Pascal understood French. So that was the language he spoke to Robert.

"You'll never guess who visited us today," he grumbled into the receiver.

Robert responded in turn, in French. "_You were being followed? I'm hardly surprised—"_

"No. You don't understand. We were in a cafe, and I went to the bathroom. When I came back, Eleis was sitting at our fucking table."

The silence that followed told more than words ever could, French or otherwise. It wasn't often Robert could be shocked into silence, he was a man of many words and a powerful thinker. Of all the times Christopher could recall him being speechless, it was always to do with Eleis.

When he finally did spoke, and it took a good long while, his voice was strained and low.

_"He came to you... in person. What happened? What did he say?"_

"We were in public, so he couldn't do anything, but— Jesus. Fuck. Fuck. I'm still fucking shaking." He dug a hand into his hair and tugged as hard as he could without ripping it out of his scalp. "I don't know what to fucking do! Oh god. I told him to go fuck himself."

_"...you— you told him to what?"_

"I did. I said it right to his face. And he looked so shocked too and it felt good at the time but I'm such a fucking imbecile. We were in public! He couldn't do anything! But I thought he was going to deck me. I'm so fucking dead. He's going to fucking kill me!"

_"He's always wanted to kill you. Now he just wants to kill you more. You should... call your friend. Eleis must be after the child, which means your friend is in danger."_

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm gonna. I will. We still got four hours left before we get there, that's... that's plenty of time. Ugh, fuck. Shit! I want to jump off a fucking, a fuckin' bridge."

_"Christopher."_

"What?"

There was more silence, but this time not from shock or surprise. Robert was waiting. For what, Chris couldn't be certain.

So when he said nothing more, Robert continued.

_"You have known me for long enough to surely understand that I always take remarks about suicide seriously, regardless of the context or the manner in which they're spoken."_

Chris suddenly felt a very powerful urge to leap out of the car window. Instead he swallowed his tongue. A minute passed in silence, with only the sound of passing traffic and the occasional creak of Robert's office chair through the mic as he shifted in it.

_"I want you to be honest with me."_

He cast a glance at Djarin and Pascal. Neither of them paying attention. Neither of them understood, and he damn well knew that, but still the paranoia poured into his gut from his chest.

"I'm not your patient," he rasped. He drank from his water bottle to suppress the cough that tickled his throat.

_"But you are my friend. I'm worried about you."_

The houses were becoming scarcer and scarcer. They were leaving town, and soon all they'd see outside would be fields, trees, and the occasional farmhouse with cows.

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. "In a hypothetical scenario where I say yes, what would you do?"

_"Nothing drastic, as you are not my patient."_

"...and... if I was your patient? What would you do?"

_"I would talk to you about it. Ask you questions, determine the severity of the situation and, if I believed your life was in imminent danger, I would call emergency services As a psychologist, not a psychiatrist, I do not have the legal authority to prescribe medication, nor the authority to admit you to a mental hospital against your will."_

"And if hypothetical-me thinks he should be in a mental hospital?"

_"Is that what he really wants?"_

He stared out the window. The houses were long gone, now.

"Sometimes."

_"Then he should be aware that an admission to a psych ward requires a diagnosis from a psychiatrist, but an inpatient psychiatric hospital will take him for at minimum a week."_

He stared at the roof of the car and frantically blinked the tears in his eyes away.

"I wanna hang up now."

_"If you should ever need anyone to talk to, I am here."_

He cleared his throat and switched to English. "Thanks. Thank you."

_"Be safe, Christopher."_

He hung up the phone and allowed it to drop into his lap. There was a pressure in his throat and behind his forehead. He coughed into his elbow but the sudden movement worsened the headache. He winced and covered his eyes with his hands. They lingered there until his arms began to hurt.

"Everything okay?" Pascal asked. Chris caught his eye in the rearview mirror.

"Fine. It's fine."

There was more Pascal wanted to say, it was abundantly clear, but he didn't say it. Chris feared, though, that he might bring it up again later.

Din spoke instead, only to break the silence. "Who was that guy in the video?"

"The video?" Chris looked over at him.

"The one of the kid. Who was that guy?"

"Oh, they're-" he thought for a moment. "A friend. Uh, they're- they're nonbinary. Agender, actually."

"Oh. Okay. What happened to their legs? Were they born like that?" At the sight of Chris' expression he quickly added, "Or do I not wanna know."

"No, it's fine, I'm more concerned about his stomach than yours." He gestured to Pascal in the front seat, and he huffed.

"I can handle it," he insisted. Chris sighed.

"The portal closed on them when they were falling through. That's it."

"Oh, _fuck."_

Both of them made identical disgusted faces. Chris thought that Djarin didn't really have the right to be disgusted when he cut a guy in half with a door, but, he didn't say that out loud. He just pulled his blanket over his torso and curled up into a ball.

He spent the rest of the car trip this way, at one point falling asleep, but woke up ten minutes before arrival to the sound of Pascal and Djarin whispering to each other. Playing some sort of i-spy game, from what he could discern. He pretended to be asleep until the car pulled up into the parking lot.  
  


* * *

  
  


The hotel was old, but well kept. Din thought it looked comfortable, and cozy. Clearly it was only built for passerbys, and he could understand why - the town was tiny, just as small as Mos Pelgo, Din thought, if not smaller. No more than fifty people could possibly be living in it. Surrounded by nothing but grass plains and very distant mountains, the only indication that they had been on the right track at all was the little sign along the way that had read _welcome to Rachel, Nevada. _It looked more to Din like a very large farm than a town, with how the houses were spread about.

"This is the address," Pedro said. He stared out the window, thinking, then craned his neck so that he was looking back at Din. "How you feeling?"

Truthfully? Exhausted. He'd done nothing but sit in a car for four hours or so, but still getting up out of the car and walking all that way to their hotel room sounded more physically draining than being thrown around by that damned mudhorn.

"Fine," he said, though even as he said this he was glancing around at their surroundings. The kid could be in any one of the little houses, scattered about in a nonsensical pattern. Was he within walking distance? Could he cross the street and find him there? Or would Pedro need to drive them five more minutes, ten more minutes? Which door was he behind?

"We should go in. Is Chris-"

"I'm awake," Christopher grumbled, though his eyes were still closed. "Gimme a minute."

They hopped out of the car, Chris followed soon after. He did take his bags, but begrudgingly offered some to Pedro when he couldn't even take a few steps toward the front door. _"It's okay,"_ Pedro said, _"I don't mind,"_ he insisted, but it didn't stop the pained guilt showing on Chris' face even after he'd stopped apologising.

The guilty expression turned into something else, though, when they approached the front desk. A lady stood behind the counter, a nametag pinned to her clothes that read 'Amelia'. She had grey hair which was pulled into a very short ponytail, though it was dyed and she looked just about the same age as Chris. When she saw them, her neutral expression turned into a glare, and Christopher appeared meek and small, even though he towered over her and just about everyone else in the room.

"Hello," she said, and she had a very southern accent.

Chris swallowed, and he didn't respond immediately, and with how he was looking Din feared he was about to burst into tears under Amelia's glare. He didn't, and finally stammered out a weak reply,

"Where- where's our- our room?"

Amelia's glare didn't waver as she reached under the desk then slid a keycard labelled '56' across the counter. "If Eleis or any of 'em come searchin', I'll have your head."

"Thanks."

"On a pike."

"Yeah. I-I know. Thank you."

Din decided not to ask about the hostility. Pedro didn't either, and they rode the elevator to the fourth floor in abject silence. At room 56, Chris slipped the keycard into the scanner until they heard a click, and he pushed the door open.

It was a fairly small room. It had three beds, which was a relief, and a couch that faced a small TV. To their immediate right was a small kitchen and to the left a door that Din assumed led to a bathroom. At the far end, a large window with two large curtains tied at either end. Even on the fourth floor, it overlooked the entire town. A good view, but nothing pretty.

Chris collapsed on the bed closest to him, furthest from the window. Bed looked comfortable, Din would readily admit it, he wanted to collapse where he stood, but as he approached the window and stared out into the town below them, and then the great empty fields stretched out far beyond... there would be no time for resting. Not yet.

"We're near Area 51." Pedro came up behind him. Din didn't know what that was, and he voiced this. Pedro explained. "Top secret military base. No one knows what they got in there so conspiracy theorists speculate that they have aliens and shit. Kinda ironic the kid would turn up here."

Christopher's footsteps could be heard from across the room, then a running tap. Filling up his water bottle, Din assumed.

"It's damn lucky that my friend found him before the military did," Chris grumbled after a large gulp of water. "Dunno what they'd have done to 'im..." He cleared his throat and coughed.

Din pressed his palm against the window. It was cool. Pleasant to the touch even in the warm weather. The kid was out there. Maybe right below him. Waiting. Scared and alone. How long had it been for him? How long did it take for the second portal to come, after the first took his father? How long did he sit in the cold emptiness of space, waiting for rescue, before Strange took him too?

Din took a long look at his hand against the cold glass pane. Calloused. Scarred. Fingernails short and jagged from biting. When did he start biting them? Why? A nervous tic developed from so many bouts of anxiety? He couldn't remember when it started, he didn't realise when he did it. His nails would be long, and then they would be shorter, and he never thought about it. He never needed to.

The more he thought about his hand, the more naked it felt. Cold. He lifted it off the glass and instead he raised it to his cheek. Where he was expecting a cold touch, he was met with warmth. Warmth of his own skin against his face. A very naked, very bare face.

Such thin clothes, so light and manoeuvrable and comfortable. His armour sat in the cupboard at home.

Din never considered bringing it.

Not even once.

"Hey. Are you ready?"

He didn't know how much time had passed but he didn't really care. Pedro stood behind him with Christopher's backpack flung over his shoulder.

"I don't know."  
  


* * *

  
It all felt like a dream. His head was heavy but his movements were light like a feather. He moved slow, but time went by so fast that the ten minute walk turned into ten seconds. He didn't remember leaving the hotel, but now he stood outside of a small trailer with a ramp built into the door.

Din clutched Pedro's hand like his life depended on it. Christopher knocked on the metal door in a specific way, a specific rhythm, and the sound resonated over the entire surface. Din's bottom lip trembled and his legs wobbled like jelly. Pedro asked him if he was okay, if he needed to sit down, if he was sick.

Din wished he had his armour, if only to hide how the terror wracked his body. But he wasn't sure how he'd wear it with one arm still in a sling.

The trailer door slid open. Christopher's friend sat in their wheelchair on the other side, with black hair pulled into a messy bun and still in their pyjamas. They smiled up at him, a true and genuine smile. Christopher smiled back, but they didn't exchange any audible words. Instead they raised their hands and signed.

They mouthed their words as they signed. Din could read lips, it was a necessary skill he picked up over time, but he decided not to, this time. They would tell him if it was important.

Finally Chris turned to face them.

"Your kid just got to sleep." He continued to sign the words so his friend could understand. "Morgan says that they can make afternoon tea if you wanna wait."

Asleep.

Din wanted to see him soon and _now, _but— he was a baby. He needed sleep. There'd be no harm in waiting. Pedro looked to him, asked for his opinion. Din nodded.

Morgan ushered them all into the trailer. It was definitely not the same place Din recalled from the video and pictures, that place was a house. This was a tiny temporary thing. Comfortable, at least, but in the heat, with no aircon, it'd get hot quick.

Morgan spoke to them, audibly, and while Din struggled to make out some words, he understood most of it and filled in the gaps.

"He's scared. I fed him some soup and gave him some water. He cried a lot and it was hard to keep him quiet. Chris called and said that I should move somewhere else so that Eleis couldn't find me. That's why I'm here."

Din noted the sign they used for Chris' name. They didn't spell it, it was one motion. _They must be close friends if they thought of a new sign for his name._

Morgan wheeled their chair to the tiny kitchen area. They put on the kettle and pulled from their tiny cupboard an unopened packet of cookies.

"Take a seat," they said with a smile and a gesture to a small but comfy looking couch. They opened the packet and put it on the coffee table. "I'll make tea."

Din was hesitant, but as soon as he saw Christopher reach out to take one of the cookies, he knew it was safe, and reached for one as well. If he could help himself to their hospitality then anyone could. Din nibbled on it as Morgan made their tea, happily humming to themselves. He wondered if they were fully deaf, or if they had retained some hearing. Surely they had, or they wouldn't be humming? But then again, he didn't know much about hearing loss. Perhaps it was just the vibrations that they liked.

By the time Morgan wheeled over to them with the cups of tea on an antique looking tray Din has finished his cookie, but didn't feel right taking another until Christopher did. And so far, he hadn't.

They took the cups from the tray and handed them all out one by one. Din tried to sip it but it burned his tongue so he opted to blow on it until it cooled. Chris must have had a very high heat tolerance or some sort of nerve damage in his tongue, as he sipped it just fine without even flinching.

"I'm glad you're here," said Morgan, signing as they spoke now that their hands were free. "I'm happy that his father is here."

There was one closed door, at the very end of the trailer. Directly opposite them, right past the kitchen. One closed door. The longer Din stared the lighter he felt and the more his mind told him he could float right over and phase right through. He'd never felt it so strongly before, that push and pull, like space itself dragging him by the wrist, Ad'ika was behind that door, and Din could _feel _him.

Din cleared his throat. He tore his gaze from the door and looked at Morgan.

"Thank you for taking him in," he croaked. "If you hadn't..."

"I would die before letting Eleis take that child." Suddenly their expression was serious. "His cult doesn't stop at children. I know of entire families that got wiped out. It's always that blonde woman. She does what the younger ones don't have the stomach for."

"Heidi," Christopher said. Din thought to the letters he'd been reading, at least a few every week. Heidi was Eleis' right hand, so he supposed it made sense, that she would do so much of his dirty work, but then... why not do it himself? And what about Gabriel?

"She's a monster." Morgan scoffed. "I would live happily knowing that she's dead and gone."

Christopher looked like he had more to say. His lips thinned, and his hands braced to perform more signs. But he said nothing, and dropped his hands to his lap. Morgan took a sip of their tea.

"I know that when Eleis is gone, the rest of them will flee to the wind," they said, "but I still maintain that Heidi would take the mantle. If she's half the manipulator he is, she could create an army."

"She's too brash," Chris said. He took another cookie but didn't seem in the mood for it anymore. "She's blunt. She couldn't take his place even if she wanted to."

"You don't think she wants to?"

"Doesn't seem the type... also, not sure this world needs a German cult leader right now."

Pedro choked on his tea. He covered his mouth to avoid spitting it all over Morgan.

"Is it bad that she's German?" Din asked. Chris shook his head.

"Never mind."

Morgan gave a small frown. "It's distasteful to liken them to Nazis."

"They're murderers."

Din knew only very little of Earth history, but he recognised the term. Beyond that he'd no context. So he kept quiet.

"I guess you're right." Morgan sighed. They put their hands in their lap, thinking. No one spoke. Pedro seemed very intent on doing anything _but _speaking. Din lifted the tea cup to his lips and took the smallest sip. Still hot. The atmosphere was tense, so he took another sip. He stared at Morgan's lack of legs, and tried his best not to imagine the event in his mind. _How did they survive? _He decided not to ask.

He raised the cup once more, but froze just as the porcelain met his lips. The smallest sound. Subtle. He almost missed it. Almost brushed it off. But he knew that sound. He knew that sound, he thought, as he placed his cup on the table, and tears filled his eyes. He knew it all too well, and it was coming from behind the closed door.

Morgan looked at him. They couldn't hear it, of course, but Din hadn't the wits the will or the energy to tell them. That sound, like a cry, a toddler. A high pitched whine.

"I think the kid is awake," whispered Pedro. No doubt he saw how Din's eyes were glued to the door. How he'd lost all the colour in his skin and how his breathing quickened. Morgan nodded, their expression less serious now. They wheeled backward and pivoted the chair. Din watched as they took the door handle, twisted it until there was a click, and pushed the door open.

It was dark. Din couldn't see in. Morgan disappeared into the room. There was a ringing in his ears drowned out by his thundering heart. He found Pedro's hand and didn't dare let go, and Pedro didn't make him. Not even when his grip tightened and tightened to where they would leave a bruise, as Morgan came back into view with a tiny bundle in their arm.

"Are you okay?" Pedro whispered to him. Din didn't answer, because he didn't know. Every ounce of his mind wanted him to do something, anything, but his body was frozen. His fingers dug into his thigh. Morgan leaned as far as they could over the coffee table without falling out of their chair. Din reached out. From one side he could see the very tip of a green ear poking out from the fabric. Everything was deathly silent as he took the bundle into his one good arm.

And through his tears, Din saw two, big, round eyes staring up at him.


	52. Too quiet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire and brimstone fell upon my ears  
As their throats of open graves recited fear  
Like the bullets of a gun they drove my tears  
And my feet to run the hell out of here

_Eleis,_

_Before Abbi died, she told me about someone that you used to know. Robert? She said that you two were together. Not to judge, mate, but just wondering why you told her, and not us. I know you two were close, but we're your friends too._

_Gabe_

* * *

There were three thoughts in Pedro's mind.

First, that Din looked so vulnerable. A quivering bottom lip, tears in his eyes. Second, was how small he looked. How tiny. How he hunched over himself and rocked back and forth on the couch with one leg shaking. Third, and final, was how incredibly _alive _the child was.

Not a puppet, not an animatronic, there was no one behind a remote control, the child moved of his own accord in the same way that any child would because he was _real _and _living. _He blinked, and took a deep breath, and suddenly he was crying and none of them knew what to do especially not Din whose arms trembled so bad that Pedro feared he'd drop the child but he didn't, he held a tight grip and he wasn't going to let go, but the child was crying and they needed to do _something._

"He doesn't recognise you," Morgan said. "He's never seen your face." And of course, because that made sense, and why didn't they think about that? Why didn't they think to bring the armour, or at least the helmet?

"Say something to him," Chris said. "Maybe he'll know your voice?"

Din opened his mouth, but no sound came from him, no sound from anyone else, no sound except the _bang bang bang _on the door, and they knew, and _everyone _knew, Morgan told them to _shut it _and _go hide _and even the kid knew to be quiet. They squeezed together in the bathroom, Din's breathing was ragged as he held the child to his chest and Christopher was as pale as the white wall behind him.

Pedro peered through the crack in the bathroom door. He saw a woman, a blondewoman, jaw-length and curly hair with such a piercing gaze that a shiver travelled down his spine even though she never once glanced in his direction.

"It's Heidi," Pedro whispered, as loud as he dared, which wasn't very loud at all. He watched as Morgan trembled, and as Heidi's gaze swept the room.

"I have a gun in my backpack," Chris whispered in a shaky voice, very close to Pedro's ear. "We just need to distract Heidi long enough so Morgan can escape."

"Not if she kills all of us!" Pedro hissed.

"She'll kill all of us anyway if we stay here. _Please, _Morgan is my friend."

Din opened his mouth to speak but just as he did so, Heidi's accented voice could be heard on the other side of the door.

"I know you're harbouring them," she said. Her accent was faded with the years spent in America, but still strong enough to be identifiable. If he hadn't known she was German already, he would've guessed it now. "I saw them enter. I didn't see them leave."

Morgan trembled. Heidi's hand rested on her holster.

"If you give them to me," she continued, "now, I will spare you. If you don't, and I find them here..."

"We need to do something," Din said. Chris released his breath. "I can take Heidi on, and I know multiple ways we can escape."

"You don't have your armour," said Pedro.

"I've been in worse situations."

"Din, your arm is broken!"

"They found the kid. They took care of him. If I can save their life, I will. Christopher?"

Chris had already taken his gun from his backpack. Pedro did his best not to recoil and grab his shoulder at the sight of the thing, but it must've shown on his face as Chris shot him an apologetic look.

"Christopher," Din said, "you take Pedro. You shield him. If Heidi goes for you, him, or Morgan, then shoot her but only _once. _I want to avoid angering CANDID as much as possible."

"Okay."

"Go back to the hotel. Wait for me as long as you can, but if you need to then _leave. _Pedro--"

His heart was pounding. He hadn't registered a word of what was said, all of it muddled and muffled in his head. But he understood when Din held out the child.

He was heavy. Heavier than the puppet. Only just bigger than a human one-year-old. In the tense silence, he'd fallen asleep, and his eyes moved back and forth under his eyelids, just like a human would.

But he wasn't human.

_Grogu..._

"Are you ready?"

_No. _"I'm ready."

The door flew open. Christopher covered Pedro with his arm while he aimed the gun at Heidi with the other, and Din leapt forward. He tackled her to the ground, they both fell with a thud. She struggled underneath him but he kept her hands pinned above her head, while Morgan plucked her gun from the floor.

Heidi kicked up her legs and pushed Din off. She threw a punch at him but he rolled to the side and used a chair to pull himself to his feet. Slowly Christopher side-stepped to the door, Pedro behind him clutching the child to his chest and Morgan just beside. Heidi threw another punch, Din ducked under it then grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. She arched her free arm forward then with incredible force jammed it back into Din's face, without his helmet he yelled and stumbled. Now Heidi turned to the three of them and before Din realised she bounded forward, ripped Christopher from Pedro's tight grasp — shot fired but too late, it missed, she threw him at the kitchen, where he fell back and his head slammed against the very edge of the counter, and it left a stain of bright red.

Now he was still, and Heidi turned to the rest of them with fire in her eyes, but then another shot rang through the air and suddenly she let out a heart-wrenching scream and fell to the floor, clutching and clawing at her side, already stained with blood.

"Go!" Din yelled at them, "Go! I'll get Christopher. Go!"

Pedro took the back of Morgan's wheelchair with one hand and shoved it as hard as he dared, out of the door, and didn't stop once, not even to look back and check if Din was following, or if Christopher was okay. He didn't slow until the hotel was in his sights. Through the doors he pushed Morgan, and Amelia rushed forward. Any aggression from before was gone and she kneeled at Morgan's side.

"I heard the shots. Are you okay?"

Morgan nodded, but then shook their head.

"I'll get you a blanket. You," she snapped at Pedro, "rich boy, where's Christopher?"

"I-I don't know. He hit his head, I didn't see what—"

"And Mando?"

"I don't know. He might be following or maybe he's still—"

"Fine. Go sit in the back. That's the kid? I'll get some soup. As soon as they get here you guys need to go the fuck home. Even better, go straight to that wizard guy."

He didn't try to ask who 'that wizard guy' was. He asked no questions. Amelia led them to a door behind the counter and shoved them inside. A small living area for staff, with lots of comfy couches, a giant blue rug, and its own kitchen.

Pedro took a seat on a couch. Grogu was awake, he could tell by the rapid breathing, but he didn't dare to look and see for himself. He didn't dare to scare him further. He gently patted Grogu's back and nothing more.

He tried to offer Morgan a spot beside him, but they shook their head and insisted they were content seated in their wheelchair. He didn't miss, though, how they tucked Heidi's gun under their shirt.

The room was warm from the hot air that came in through a window, but Pedro couldn't stop shivering. Over and over the events played in his mind. Christopher's head against the counter, falling limp on the floor. Heidi's wretched scream and the sight of crimson against a white, woollen sweater. And Din...

"He'll be okay." Morgan put a comforting hand on his knee, sensing his disquiet. The action itself didn't help, but the thought did. He forced himself to breathe, in through his nose and out through his mouth, until his heart slowed to a comfortable pace.

In the silence, his ears were ringing. A subtle hum, one drawn out tune. He hoped it wouldn't last, but with two gunshots, one after the other, in such close proximity and such an enclosed space, somehow he doubted it would go away any time soon. He wanted to cover his ears, make the world quiet even for a moment, but sitting next to someone who was deaf, he didn't want to accidentally offend — even though he knew it wasn't offensive. So he leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes, in a ditch effort to drown out the world around him.

But as he sat there in the silence, all he could hear was the droning tune, as though it was getting louder and louder with each passing moment. He knew it wasn't, but his body convinced him it was; his ears started to hurt.

Opening his eyes again didn't help matters. The room was blindingly bright, a fact that came clear to him the longer he sat in it. And it was hot, too. No air conditioning, and no curtains on any of the windows. His only comfort was the child rested heavily on his chest, and even then, also a source of anxiety. Amelia came in with soup for him, and a blanket for Morgan, but no one spoke.

Pedro picked up the bowl of soup. He moved Grogu to one arm.

"Hey, kid," he said softly. Those big brown eyes stared up at him. So confused and so afraid. "You hungry?" His ears perked up at the sound of Pedro's voice. _Do you recognise it? _The thought made him smile. He pressed the soup bowl to Grogu's lips, and he took a small sip, then reached to grab the bowl for himself. "No, it's too heavy for you."

Feeding Grogu brought some comfort, at least. He wanted to take a photo so badly, send it to Jon! But he wouldn't do that without Din's permission. And not until they were all safe.

The soup was halfway gone when the door suddenly opened. He saw the back of Din's head, then as he moved into the room he saw Christopher in his arms, and Amelia following closely.

"Put him down here." She directed Din to the couch across from Pedro and Morgan. "Put a pillow behind his head, yes, like that. And under his knees."

Pedro rose from his seat. He offered Grogu to Morgan and they took him with a shaky smile. Satisfied he was in good hands, Pedro shuffled to where Chris now lay.

He was fully unconscious. Pale, almost blue in the face. His hair was matted together by blood and his breathing was ragged.

"Is he okay?"

"He's going to live."

"But is he _okay?"_

Din tilted Chris' head slightly to the left to reveal the bright red gash. No longer bleeding, but still a nasty sight. "I don't know. I used bacta as soon as I could, but if the damage has been done to his brain..."

"What'll happen to him?"

"I don't know."

Amelia stomped over to the far window. She wound it closed and pulled the curtains down. "You all need to leave."

"Christopher needs—" Amelia raised her hand, and Pedro shut his mouth.

"This hotel is supposed to be a haven. Morgan, you can stay as long as you like, dear. But Christopher—" she pointed an accusing finger, "needs to _leave._"

"But—"

"You wanna stay alive, huh? If Heidi is here, then so are the others! You _need_ to go."

"She's right." Din brushed hair out of Chris' face, then stood up straight. "We can't stay here. We're endangering the entire town."

"See? Mando's smart. Pack your things, and shoo!"

Pedro bit the inside of his mouth. Her attitude pissed him off, how much she didn't care about such a serious injury, that she'd just whisk them away before Chris had recovered. But he knew she was right, and so was Din. They couldn't risk hurting more people, people like Morgan just trying to live their lives.

The atmosphere was solemn, and neither Pedro nor Din said a word as they packed their things upstairs. It somehow felt different now without Chris trailing behind, or in front. It was just the two of them now.

They dragged their things to the front room, where Amelia was waiting and tapping her foot. She had Grogu in her arms all wrapped up in a blanket so he was adequately hidden, but even as she tried the tip of his green ear continued to poke out. At the sight of Din she marched over and held the child out like a dog.

"If anything happens to that baby," she said, "I'll kill you."

Pedro and Din exchanged a look. He took the child from her grasp with his good arm and rested him against his chest.

"Thank you," Din murmured. If Pedro hadn't been paying attention, he'd have missed the small smile that flashed on Amelia's face.

Her snark was back as quickly as it went though. "Well, I wouldn't be a very nice person if I let children die, would I? I'll carry Christopher out, y'all get to your car."

"Are you sure?"

"Man is as light as a newborn fuckin' baby. I'll carry him."

They just managed to load Christopher's bags into the trunk when Amelia came out with Chris in her arms, followed by Morgan all covered up in a thick blanket. Pedro opened the passenger door.

"Is it okay for him to sit up straight?" he asked.

"Should be fine, if the ride isn't too bumpy," Din said.

"I'll drive slow. Where's his pillow?"

Amelia lowered Chris into the seat and did up the seatbelt. Pedro stuffed the pillow right next to him then threw his blanket over his legs. Pedro slid into the driver's seat and just as he moved to close the door, Amelia reached out to grab his shoulder.

"I know how that man is. Make sure he doesn't do something stupid. He needs rest."

At that, she slammed the door closed, and without another word, she marched away back into the hotel. Morgan wheeled forward, though, so he rolled down the window.

"Please make sure he's safe," they said, signing as they spoke. "Christopher is a very good friend. I feel very strongly for him."

Pedro reached through the window, for Morgan's hand. They grabbed it and held it tight.

"I promise I'll keep him safe."

"Thank you..."

They both retracted their hands. As he rolled the window up again, he gave a comforting smile, and they returned it in kind. Through the side mirror, as he drove away, he saw them waving until they were out of view.

Now there was silence.

_Too quiet._

* * *

It still felt surreal.

Every few minutes Din would glance down, and he'd see the kid tucked under his arm, still there, never moved, breathing deeply. He'd caress his ear with his thumb, and every few seconds it would twitch, and sometimes the kid would wriggle and squirm, and then he'd stop touching his ear. But it was too tempting, and it provided too much comfort, and the kid was so warm and soft.

He never touched the kid with his bare hands before. He wished he had now; his skin was so delicate, and the top of his head was so fuzzy, so soft, that it almost brought tears to his eyes. He wanted to kiss his wrinkly forehead and his tiny little nose. But he'd wait, until they got back. Until they were home again, and they were safe, and Din could put on his helmet to show the kid that there was _nothing_ to be afraid of. The fact that he ever had to be afraid at all...

He patted his back, gently, softly. If he listened hard enough he could hear the soft, quiet breathing and, if he focused very hard, he could feel the faintest heartbeat. Something he'd never have felt before, never even bothered to look for, and now... how could he go back to his armour? After this? How could he ever?

He wished Omera had a phone, so he could show her, send her pictures, a video, or even just _talk _to her— by the gods he missed her so fucking much. She'd asked him to marry her and then kissed him _in that order _and now that he was thinking about it, he wasn't gonna be able to stop. He liked it that way, though. Being able to think about it without hurting. It hurt, before, even when she said she liked him back. It was an overwhelming sensation, constant butterflies and a flutter in his chest every time he saw her or even thought about her but, it didn't hurt anymore.

"I see you smiling back there." Pedro had put on his 'I'm going to tease Din' voice. "What's up?"

Din sighed. "Just thinking."

"Yeah? What about?"

"Omera."

"Ooh, I see~!"

Everything about her was soft; her hair, her skin, her lips, her voice. He closed his eyes and pictured her just how she was before he left. She wore Pedro's old clothes again, and he loved it when she did that. How modern she looked and how the baggy shirts hung off her and went down past her hips, and she'd constantly have to pull the sleeves over her shoulders again because they slipped off. He liked her shoulders.

The drive was shorter, this time, with so much less traffic. Even so, his own thoughts made it seem shorter, anyway. If he hadn't been so lost in his thoughts, he might've noticed the car that was trailing them sooner.

It was only something he noticed in passing, at first. He'd assumed they were taking the same route, nothing more. But leaning into the sixth hour, and they were still there. The windows were dark and the sun was bright, he couldn't see whoever was behind the wheel. But he could take a guess.

"Pedro?"

"Yes?"

Christopher was still unconscious. If it was Eleis, and he very much imagined it was, they'd need to go straight to Robert's.

"I need you to make a turn."

Pedro furrowed his eyebrows. "Why?"

Din stared out at the side mirror. Still there.

"I think we're being followed."

His hands tightened around the wheel. "How long?"

"A few hours. It could just be a coincidence so I wanna make sure."

"Okay. Okay, I'm gonna U-turn."

The car rounded a corner onto the other lane just before a set of traffic lights turned red. Perfect timing, Din thought; if they were being trailed, the stalker wasn't going to stop at the lights.

And they didn't. They followed, around the bend and down the street. Now Pedro glanced, paranoid, between the rearview mirror and the road.

"Okay." Din shifted in his seat. "We need to go to Robert's house."

"Why him?"

"I can explain later. You remember the way?"

"I remember the address."

"Good. Good, go there."

Din pulled out his phone, with great difficult thanks to his broken arm, and then pulled up Robert's number. The latest text from Robert reminded him that he'd forgotten to attend the last session, and that he'd need to apologise about that later, but _no, priorities!_

_We're being trailed by your ex._

The reply was almost instantaneous.

_Eleis?_

_Are you sure?_

_What colour is the car?_

_Can you see him?_

When Din didn't respond immediately, his phone began to ring. Begrudgingly, he accepted it.

_"How far away are you from my house?"_

He'd never heard that tone in Robert's voice before. Usually he was so calm, and collected. But it sounded like proper panic.

"Fifteen minutes at the most. And Chris is injured."

_"Injured? Injured how?"_

"He hit his head and hasn't woken up since. I gave him bacta—"

_"Fuck."_

Din raised both eyebrows. He'd never heard Robert swear before.

_"You need to come straight here. Do you understand me?"_

"Way ahead of you. And the car is white, by the way."

_"Number plate?"_

Din texted it to him. He heard a shaky breath on the other end of the line.

_"Yeah. Okay."_

Something about a distressed Robert was more disturbing to Din than the stressor. On the other hand...

"How did you guys split? Exactly?"

_"That's..." _Silence. Very poignant and very purposeful. _"Private, Din." _And now his therapist voice was back. Din wasn't having it.

"And he's actively sent people to kill us. We're past privacy, and this isn't another session. So, as a friend who fears for his _life, _I'd like to have some information before my inevitable demise."

He thought he'd gotten through to him, for a moment. There was silence, a shaky breath, like an inhale before a long speech, but that speech never came.

The call ended.

"What a hypocrite," Din grumbled. He stared out the window again, at the mirror. Still there, and closer, now.

"What's the speed limit on this road?" he asked.

"Fifty," Pedro replied.

He looked around at the rest of the road. Completely empty, and he couldn't see any cameras.

"Go seventy."

And no questions were asked. The car sped up, and in turn, so did Eleis'. It was dangerous, Din knew it, and so stupid, but they needed to get to Robert's house and _fast. _Still no response from Christopher. His eyes were moving under his eyelids though, which meant it wasn't a coma. Just a very long nap.

_A very long nap._

The car sped up again. He could see Pedro's knuckles turning white and the colour steadily drain from his face.

"Pedro?"

His arms were shaking. "I'm scared."

Din glanced over at Chris. He was properly strapped in. There was no real need to stay next to him. So Din unbuckled his seatbelt, squeezed himself from the back into the front, and landed in the shotgun seat, with the kid still clutched tight under his arm.

"Don't be," he breathed. "Stay calm. He knows we've noticed him, but that's okay. He can't do anything unless we get out of the car, and he won't follow us to Robert's house."

"Why?"

He didn't really want to explain — it was _private _after all — but if it kept him calm, he would.

"Robert and Eleis used to be together, and I guess it ended badly, obviously, but now Eleis doesn't wanna hurt him. That's why his house is safe."

"Amelia said... something about a wizard. She said to go to him." Din knew was just talking to fill the silence, and to distract himself from Eleis' car steadily encroaching their space again. Approaching 80...

"Robert's from the Harry Potter universe, I guess. Something like that. So she was right."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it's pretty amazing."

Pedro smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, and his eyes still flicked to the rearview mirror every few seconds.

"Keep your eyes on the road. He can't do anything." He wanted to offer a comforting hand, but his arm was still, very unfortunately, broken.

"He's going faster."

"I know, but if we don't panic, then he can't do anything."

Eleis was close enough, now, though, that he could see his hands through the dark-tinted window.

He was definitely going faster.

_It might be time to panic._

"Pedro?"

"Yeah?"

"Swap seats."

"What?"

"I'm going to drive."

It was a long stretch of road. They could do it. They both unbuckled their seatbelts and climbed over each other. Just a quick glance of the controls, very similar to that of his own ship in multiple ways, and he knew what to do. It'd be difficult with only one arm, but...

"Okay. I have an idea." He handed the kid off to Pedro.

"Should I be scared?"

"He's trying to crash into us."

"Okay."

"How opposed are you to crashing into him first?"

"Very!"

Ten minutes away from Robert's house, maybe even less. He could push five, if he went fast enough.

"We might not have a choice."

Christopher was safely secured. If he controlled the crash, they'd all make it out perfectly fine, so long as the airbags were working.

"I don't like this. What about the kid?"

"Do you trust me?"

There was zero hesitation. "With my life."

"Then I'm gonna have to crash your car."

He didn't get another response, so Din took it as the go-ahead. So he pressed down on the pedal.

They were well and truly speeding now. If they were caught, they'd be arrested for certain, and then Pedro would be all over the news. But they wouldn't get caught, if he'd any say in it.

90... he couldn't go any faster than that without serious injuries. Any faster than 70 was already pushing their survival chances, but— it couldn't be any different than flying a ship. Right?

The came upon a corner, but Din didn't turn into it. He spun the wheel as fast as he could with one arm, and the car skidded, drifted in the opposite direction, like a very very fast U-turn, in the back he saw Chris suddenly jolt awake, and _ah, what a lovely thing to wake up to, sorry— _he pressed down hard on the pedal, just as Eleis' car came into view — he could almost see the bastard's fearful face — and the moment Din was having second thoughts, they collided.

Din breathed heavily onto the car wheel. Pedro's ragged breath was heard beside him, and Chris' too.

"What the _fuck?" _Christopher exclaimed.

"I'll explain later."

Din slumped against the seat. The damage wasn't bad. Pedro could pay to have it fixed, if he cared enough to. But there was no time to sit and ponder. The passenger door of Eleis' car was flung open, and out the old man stumbled, coughing and wheezing. Din took once glance at the kid in Pedro's arms, still breathing, alive, but very afraid — he bit the side of his mouth until he tasted blood.

"Do you have a baseball bat?"

* * *

_Gabriel,_

_If ever you find yourself feeling the need to pry into my private life again you'd be dead before the words left your fucking tongue._

_Eleis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeahhhhhh bitch lets fucking go
> 
> join the [ discord server ](https://discord.gg/QxdaPYsMVn) (we have cake)
> 
> scream at me on the [ curious happenstance tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/curioushappenstance)
> 
> follow me on [ instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/megesaurusssssss/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading :) Please do leave a comment, they give me the motivation I need to continue writing these stories.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Family is More than Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470598) by [TheHuffliestPuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHuffliestPuff/pseuds/TheHuffliestPuff)
  * [An Old Friend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23591413) by [weirdy_w0nd3r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdy_w0nd3r/pseuds/weirdy_w0nd3r)


End file.
